THE    K^j^r 
STORY-  OF  qJ 


KATHARINE 

-TYNAN  ' 
HINKSON 


c 


'''''■'' '''Miniiiii.ijiuiijiijJMiiiij.tijii.iiijiiiiiijiiiii 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


1  L\y^-i 


'^'Iiirt^^ 


/  I 


I 


THE  STORY  OF  CECILIA 


She  felt  strangely  lonely,  with  a  girl's  wistful  loneliness. 

— Page  184 


THE  STORY  OF 
CECILIA 


BY 
KATHARINE  TYNAN  HINKSON 

DAUGHTER  OF  KINGS,"  ' 
DAUGHTER,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


AUTHOR  OF  "a  DAUGHTER  OF  KINGS,"  "  HER  FATHEr's 


NEW  YORK    CINCINNATI     CHICAGO 

BENZIGER     BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS    OF    BENZIGER's    MAGAZINE 

1911 


COPYRIGHT,   1911,   BY  BENZIGER  BROTHERS 


4 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  Old,  Unhappy,  Far-Off  Things  .     .  7 

II  Twilight 23 

III  Cecilia 35 

IV  New  Kin 51 

V  Gran 65 

VI  Wife  and  Husband 77 

VII  The  Patrick  Graces 89 

VIII  A  Railway  Journey 103 

IX  Cecily's  Daughter 117 

X  Golden  Days 129 

XI  A  Witness 143 

XII  The  Cloud  in  the  Sky     ....  157 

XIII  A  Squire  of  Low  Degree  ....  169 

XIV  "Good-By  for  Evermore"     .      .     .183 
XV  Cecilia  Learns  the  Truth     .     .     .  195 

XVI  A  Bride  from  the  Sea       ....  209 

XVII  The  Moment  Comes  and  Passes  .      .  221 

XVIII  Don  Quixote 233 

XIX  Cecilia's  Vocation 247 

XX  Betty's  Fairing 259 

XXI  Fellow-Travelers 271 

5 


6 

CHAPTER 

XXII 
XXIII 
XXIV 

XXV 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

On  the  Cliffs 285 

The  Pilgrim  of  Love 299 

The  Counselor 311 

''Love  that  Hath  Us  in  His  Net"  .  321 


THE  STORY  OF  CECILIA 


CHAPTER  I 

OLD,   UNHAPPY,   FAR-OFF   THINGS 

The  story  of  Cecilia  Grace's  parentage  was 
a  curious  one. 

Maurice  Grace,  a  plodding,  serious  young 
doctor,  with  no  pretension  to  good  looks  ex- 
cept his  deep  and  quiet  eyes,  born  of  little 
more  than  peasant  stock,  had  found  himself 
at  the  age  of  twenty-eight  or  thereabouts  do- 
ing locum  tenens  for  Dr.  Brady,  of  Knock- 
lynn. 

Knocklynn  is  situated  in  "a  great  wild 
country."  The  villages  are  small  and  scat- 
tered, the  farmers  poor  and  struggling.  There 
is  no  middle-class  there,  unless  the  village  shop- 
keepers count  for  such.  There  could  be  no 
lonelier  spot  for  a  young  man  cast  away  there 
as  was  Maurice  Grace.  Hardly  any  society 
came  his  way.  The  priest,  a  traveling  school- 
inspector  or  official  of  the  Department  of  Ag- 
riculture or  the  Post  Office:  these  made  about 
the  only  society  available.     There  were  a  few 

7 


8         OLD,  UNHAPPY,  FAR-OFF  THINGS 

great  houses  in  the  neighborhood.  But  these 
houses — Arlo,  empty  now  because  of  a  recent 
tragedy,  Kilrush  House,  where  the  master 
was  but  a  child,  the  House  of  Dromore — were 
nearly  as  much  above  Maurice  Grace  as  the 
sky  over  him. 

Nevertheless,  a  cat  may  look  at  a  king. 
The  one  distraction  amid  the  young  doctor's 
loneliness — and  he  felt  his  loneliness  less  than 
other  men,  being  somewhat  solitary  by  nature 
and  quite  ready  to  be  absorbed  by  his  books — 
was  a  certain  exquisite  face  that  had  first  swum 
into  his  ken  when  he  knelt  at  Mass  in  the  lit- 
tle church  at  Knocklynn,  the  face  of  Miss 
Cecily  Shannon,  the  young,  orphaned  cousin 
of  Lord  Dromore,  the  great  personage  of  the 
neighborhood. 

Some  people  might  have  thought  Lady 
Dromore  better  worth  looking  at.  Lady 
Dromore  belonged  to  a  family  of  English 
aristocrats  which  had  remained  faithful  to  the 
old  Church  during  all  the  storms  of  the  spa- 
cious days  and  the  succeeding  centuries.  At 
first  Lady  Dromore's  charm  did  not  or  might 
not  dawn  on  one.  She  was  not  really  tall,  but 
she  gave  the  impression  of  height.  Her 
slenderness  had  a  drooping  air.  Amid  her  ex- 
quisite, little,  dancing  children  she  had  the  look 
of  a  flower  blown  bv  the  wind.  Father  Tracv, 
who  was  imaginative  out  of  the  cormnon,  had 


OLD,  UNHAPPY,  FAPt-OFF  THINGS        9 

remarked  to  Maurice  Grace  that  Lady  Dro- 
more  was  an  exotic.  She  was  the  product  of 
ages  of  refinement,  an  exquisite  thing.  "Yet," 
said  the  priest,  "  'twould  be  the  saving  of  fam- 
ihes  hke  the  Aubreys — you  know  Lady  Dro- 
more  was  Lord  Aubrey's  daughter — if  they 
would  intermarry  with  peasants  once  in  a 
while.  There  is  too  much  selection  about  the 
Aubreys." 

JMaurice  Grace  had  barely  noticed  Lady 
Dromore,  further  than  thinking  that  she  and 
her  pretty  children  were  good  to  look  upon  to- 
gether; the  earl,  a  tall,  thin  man  with  high, 
aristocratic  features  and  a  dome-like  head 
sparsely  covered  with  sandy  hair,  seemed  to 
him  incongruous  with  such  beauties;  but  liis 
eyes  were  for  Cecily  Shannon. 

Miss  Shannon  had  the  head  of  a  young 
angel.  If  Maurice  Grace  had  known  any- 
thing at  that  time  of  Browning — his  reading 
up  to  then  had  been  chiefly  of  medical  books — ■ 
he  must  have  remembered — 

"If  one  could  have  that  little  head  of  hers 
Painted  upon  a  background  of  pale  gold." 

She  was  such  a  wonder  of  rose  and  gold  and 
white — such  a  flower-like  creature,  with  the 
faint  sweetness  hardly  to  be  called  a  smile 
hovering  about  her  soft,  pale  lips,  that  it  was 
no  wonder  Maurice  Grace  had  no  eyes  for  any 


10       OLD,  UNHAPPY,  FAR-OFF  THINGS 

beauty  but  hers,  no  wonder  that  while  he  stud- 
ied his  books,  full  of  painful  details  of  mor- 
tality, the  face  which  seemed  to  lift  its  posses- 
sor into  immortality  would  suddenly  come  be- 
tween him  and  the  page  like  apple-blossoms, 
like  wild  roses  in  June. 

The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star.  Well, 
Maurice  Grace  was  too  humble  a  moth  ever  to 
lift  his  desire  towards  his  starry  lady:  he  was 
satisfied  to  sit  and  look  at  her  from  afar:  to 
let  the  thought  of  her  fill  his  mind  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  mundane  things,  so  that  any  sudden 
call  upon  him  brought  him  out  of  his  dreams 
with  a  start.  When,  suddenly — the  star  fell 
into  liis  bosom. 

One  night  while  he  sat  reading  alone,  hardly 
heeding  the  storm  outside,  except  when 
now  and  again  a  flash  brought  into  sudden 
prominence  the  distant  towers  and  battlements 
of  the  House  of  Dromore,  some  one  came  to  his 
window  as  a  stray  bird  might,  attracted  by  the 
light.  He  had  barely  time  to  reach  her  side,  to 
receive  her  into  his  arms,  when  Cecily  Shan- 
non, for  it  was  she,  dropped  in  a  faint. 

He  earned  her  into  the  house,  procured 
blankets  and  rugs,  and  laid  her  on  the  sofa  in 
his  sitting-room.  In  his  search  for  these  things 
he  discovered  the  absence  of  Mary  Anne  Slat- 
tery,  the  housekeeper,  who,  not  for  the  first 
time,  was  enjoying  a  night  out  in  the  village, 


OLD,  UNHAPPY,  FAR-OFF  THINGS      11 

feeling  sure  that  the  absent-minded  young  doc- 
tor would  never  discover  her  absence. 

He  was  at  his  wits'  end  what  to  do.  Finally 
he  commended  the  unconscious  girl  to  the 
angels  who  could  not  be  far  off  from  Cecily 
Shannon,  and  rushed  headlong  through  the 
drenched  country  to  the  House  of  Dromore, 
which  was  at  no  great  distance  as  the  crow  flies. 
He  fortunately  found  Lord  Dromore  still  up 
and  waiting  in  his  library,  and  succeeded  in  at- 
tracting his  attention  without  wakening  the 
household. 

Lord  and  Lady  Dromore  followed  him  back 
to  the  doctor's  house  with  all  speed  possible. 
They  were  beside  him  when  at  last  Cecily  Shan- 
non opened  her  eyes,  with  little  surprise  appar- 
ently at  finding  herself  amid  such  unfamiliar 
surroundings. 

The  next  day  Dr.  Grace  was  called  in  to 
Miss  Shannon,  who  in  her  delirium  over-night 
had  contracted  a  bad  chill,  and  was  lying  seri- 
ously ill  with  an  illness  which  soon  revealed  it- 
self as  pneumonia. 

It  was  a  veiy  bad  case,  but  the  doctor  and 
the  nurse  he  had  called  down  from  Dublin,  a 
freckled,  angular  girl,  who,  when  he  was  not 
looking  at  her,  would  turn  eyes  of  devotion  on 
the  silent  young  man,  fought  death,  hand  to 
hand,  for  the  young  life.  At  last  their  efforts 
were  rewarded.     Slowly,  slowly,  Cecily  Shan- 


m       OLD,  UNHAPPY,  FAR-OFF  THINGS 

non  drew  away  a  little  every  day  from  the  gates 
of  the  great  mystery  that  had  been  opening  to 
receive  her;  every  day  turned  a  little  more  to 
the  things  of  life. 

As  her  convalescence  made  progress  her  de- 
pendence on  the  doctor  became  very  obvious. 
It  was  borne  in  upon  Ladj'-  Dromore  with  a 
shock  that  she  longed  for  his  presence,  fretted 
when  he  was  not  there,  seemed  absorbed  indeed 
in  the  thought  of  him  to  the  exclusion  of  the 
others  who  were  admitted  to  the  sick  room. 
She  was  exacting  as  a  convalescent  child.  No 
one  could  do  things  for  her  like  the  doctor. 
Other  people  hurt  her  when  they  moved  her; 
she  was  petulant  with  her  nurse,  she  who  had 
always  been  so  gentle:  even  Lady  Dromore 
could  not  do  things  for  her  as  she  wished. 

Maurice  Grace  wore  himself  out  to  respond 
to  her  exactions.  He  was  at  her  beck  and  call 
every  hour  of  the  day,  almost  of  the  night. 
Between  his  work  as  locum  teneiis  and  his  at- 
tendance on  Miss  Shannon  his  hours  for  rest 
and  food  were  sadly  curtailed. 

When  at  last  her  recovery  was  assured,  al- 
though the  haggard  anxiety  had  passed  from 
his  face,  it  had  left  its  traces. 

Lady  Dromore  spoke  of  it  to  her  husband. 

"Dr.  Grace  thinks  we  may  dispense  with 
Sister  Mary  this  week,"  she  said.  "There  is 
nothing  now   that  home-nursing   camiot   do. 


OLD,  UNHAPPY,  FAR-OFF  THINGS      13 

Next  week,  if  the  weather  holds  up,  he  thinks 
we  can  get  her  out  in  the  sunniest  hours  of  the 
day.  And — Dr.  Brady  comes  back  on  Friday. 
Dr.  Grace's  devotion  has  been  beyond  praise." 

Something  in  her  voice  made  her  husband 
turn  and  look  at  her. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Edith?"  he  asked. 
"What  do  you  mean  about  Dr.  Grace?  He 
seems  a  very  good  fellow." 

"Why  should  anything  be  the  matter?" 

"My  dear,  do  you  think  I  do  not  know  by 
this  time  what  the  droop  of  your  voice  means. 
Ciss  is  doing  all  right,  hey?" 

There  was  a  kind  ring  of  anxiety  in  Lord 
Dromore's  voice.  He  was  very  fond  of  his 
portionless  young  cousin,  whom  a  more  worldly 
man  might  have  thought  something  of  a  bur- 
den, for  the  Dromores  were  not  rich,  and  Cecily 
Shannon  had  given  them  special  cause  for 
anxiety. 

"Ciss  is  making  excellent  progress.  Only  I 
don't  know  how  she  will  take  the  doctor's  go- 
ing." 

"We'd  better  keep  him  on,  make  it  worth  his 
while,  till  poor  Ciss  is  on  her  feet  again.  I 
should  like  to  do  something  for  that  young  man. 
He  has  behaved  uncommonly  well  all  through. 
Don't  you  think  so,  Edith?" 

"I  have  watched  him  at  Ciss's  bedside,  when 
there  was  practically  no  hope,"  Lady  Dromore 


14       OLD,  UNHAPPY,  FAR-OFF  THINGS 

said,  in  her  soft,  trailing  voice.  "Under  God 
he  saved  Ciss's  hfe." 

"What  can  we  do  for  him,  Edith?" 

Lady  Dromore  went  and  stood  by  the  win- 
dow, her  long  dress  of  dull  blue  silken  stuff  fol- 
lowing her,  and  settling  itself  when  she  stood 
still. 

"I  don't  know  how  Ciss  will  take  his  going," 
she  said  again. 

Lord  Dromore  stared  at  her  in  surprise. 

"Why  do  you  harp  on  it,  Edith?  Ciss  will 
miss  him  at  first,  but  she  has  us  all.  The 
sooner  she  gets  rid  of  sick-room  associations  the 
better." 

"Ah,  yes,  I  dare  say  you  are  right,"  Lady 
Dromore  said;  but  her  husband  could  see  that 
she  was  perplexed  by  the  pucker  between  her 
brows  and  the  manner  in  which  she  stood  clasp- 
ing and  unclasping  her  delicate,  jeweled  hands. 

He  knew  more  about  her  thoughts  when, 
a  few  days  later,  Dr.  Grace's  visits  suddenly 
ceased.  Lady  Dromore  had  thought  it  better 
there  should  be  no  leave-taking,  and  Dr.  Grace 
had  agreed  with  her.  She  was  a  very  proud 
woman  in  her  gentle  way,  but  simple  and 
tender-hearted  as  well,  and  the  spasm  which 
crossed  the  young  doctor's  plain  dark  face  when 
she  suggested  to  him  that  the  visit  he  had  just 
paid  Miss  Shannon  should  be  the  last,  touched 
her  to  sharp  compassion. 


OLD,  UNHAPPY,  FAR-OFF  THINGS      15 

"As  you  will,  Lady  Dromore,"  he  said 
quietly. 

"I'm  afraid  she  will  miss  you  dreadfully," 
she  said,  against  her  better  judgment. 

Again  his  face  twitched ;  but  Lady  Dromore 
was  fain  to  own  that  he  had  dignity. 

"Miss  Shannon  has  been  a  very  grateful 
patient,"  he  said.  "I  am  rewarded  by  having 
been  of  use  to  her." 

Only  when  he  had  gone  did  Lady  Dromore 
remember  the  very  substantial  check  which 
she  ought  to  have  handed  to  Dr.  Grace.  He 
was  gone  from  the  House  of  Dromore  appar- 
ently without  thinking  of  his  fee:  gone  back 
to  his  work  in  Dublin.  When  the  check  fol- 
lowed him  he  returned  it.  He  had  done  noth- 
ing to  earn  such  an  excessive  fee.  If  Lord 
Dromore  would  give  him  the  ordinary  medical 
fees  he  would  be  quite  satisfied. 

His  lordship  said  something  that  sounded 
like  a  strong  word,  and  then  broke  into  plaud- 
its of  the  doctor.  It  was  quixotic,  idiotic, 
ridiculous,  but  it  was  fine.  He  praised 
Heaven  for  the  unbusiness-like  race  of  Irish 
doctors.  But  Grace  would  have  to  take  the 
fee.  Confound  him,  what  did  he  mean  by  it? 
He  had  saved  pretty  Ciss's  life,  and  in  one  way 
or  another  he  would  have  to  take  his  fee. 

Meanwhile  Sister  Mary  had  not  returned  to 
Dublin.     Within  a  very  few  days  it  became 


16       OLD,  UNHAPPY,  FAR-OFF  THINGS 

evident  that  she  was  not  Hkely  to  return  to 
Dublin  for  some  time,  for  Ciss's  case  did  not 
look  at  all  so  favorable  as  it  had  done  a  week 
ago.  There  had  been  a  sudden  check  to  Ciss's 
convalescence  with  the  disappearance  of  Dr. 
Grace.  She  had  not  very  much  strength  to 
lose:  and  she  seemed  to  have  lost  the  will  to  get 
well. 

It  ended  in  Dr.  Grace's  having  to  be  re- 
called ;  and  now  the  sick  girl  could  hardly  bear 
him  out  of  her  sight.  He  w^as  shocked  at  the 
ground  she  had  lost.  He  was  ready  to  wait  on 
her  hand  and  foot.  And  Ciss  was  as  exacting 
as  a  convalescent  child.  No  one  could  lift  her 
on  to  her  sofa :  no  one  carry  her  downstairs  ex- 
cept the  doctor.  If  he  was  not  there  to  do 
things  for  her,  she  would  not  let  any  one  else 
take  his  place. 

At  last  even  Lord  Dromore,  most  unobserv- 
ant of  men,  noticed  Ciss's  infatuation  for  her 
doctor. 

"Confound  it!"  he  said;  "it  seems  as  though 
Grace  had  put  Paul  Chadwick  out  of  her  mind. 
Hyperion  and  a  Satyr!     Can  it  be  possible?" 

Lady  Dromore  winced  as  though  he  had  hurt 
her. 

"Do  you  know,  I  believe  she  confuses  him 
with  poor  Paul?"  she  said.  "And — haven't 
you  noticed  it  ? — there  is  a  queer  likeness.  To 
be  sure  Dr.  Grace  has  no  looks  to  speak  of,  and 


OLD,  UNHAPPY,  FAR-OFF  THINGS      17 

Paul  was  as  handsome  as  a  man  dare  to  be.  Do 
you  not  see  the  likeness?" 

Lord  Dromore  did  not  see  it,  and  went  off 
grumbling  that  he  supposed  they  must  start  a 
body-physician  at  the  House  of  Dromore  to 
please  Ciss. 

A  few  days  later  Maurice  Grace  stood  be- 
fore Lady  Dromore,  proud  and  yet  humble. 

"I  have  no  doubt,"  he  said,  "that  your  lady- 
ship will  order  me  from  your  door ;  but  I  must 
speak  all  the  same.  Miss  Shannon  loves  me. 
I  should  not  have  dared  to  as^^ire  to  her,  but — 
she  loves  me.  And  since  she  loves  me,  I  must 
endure  your  ladyship's  anger  and  .  .  .  and 
contempt." 

His  eyes  met  hers  as  proudly  as  her  own, 
though  his  words  were  humble. 

"Oh,  not  contempt!"  answered  Lady  Dro- 
more, in  a  shocked  voice.  "Not  contempt. 
And  you  have  saved  her  life,  the  poor  child. 
Only" — her  voice  was  softly  compassionate — 
"my  poor  boy" — Maurice  Grace  could  hardly 
believe  his  ears  that  Lady  Dromore  was  calling 
him  her  poor  boy — "I'm  afraid  that  Ciss  .  .  . 
confuses  you  with  some  one  else.  Her  lover 
.  .  .  Sir  Paul  Chadwick  met  a  frightful  death 
at  the  hands  of  savages.  She  heard  of  it  with 
the  most  cruel  suddenness.  The  shock  has 
...  we  hope  only  for  the  time  .  .  .  just 
clouded  her  poor  brain.     It   will   pass,   Dr. 


18       OLD,  UNHAPPY,  FAR-OFF  THINGS 

Grace.  Then  .  .  .  Ciss  will  .  .  .  will  ...  be 
herself  once  more." 

Maurice  Grace  winced  and  bowed  his  head 
in  a  way  Lady  Dromore  found  curiously  touch- 
ing. 

"You  mean  she  will  see  me  as  I  am?"  he 
said  simply.  "Well,  the  other  man  is  dead.  I 
will  risk  it.  Lady  Dromore.  Give  her  to  me. 
Honestly,  I  believe  she  will  not  live  if  I  leave 
her  now.  She  requires  a  doctor's  constant  su- 
pervision. She  will  be  happy  with  me.  In 
the  happiness  I  shall  give  her  the  cloud  will  lift 
from  her  brain." 

To  her  amazement  Lady  Dromore  found 
herself  discussing  what  would  have  seemed  an 
impossible  proposition. 

"Have  you  considered,"  she  asked,  "what 
the  lifting  of  the  cloud  may  mean  to  you?" 

"I  have  considered  it,"  he  said,  "and  I  accept 
it.     Give  her  to  me,  Lady  Dromore." 

"Is  there  no  other  way?"  Lady  Dromore 
asked  piteously.  "If  you  were  a  married 
physician — I  had  been  hoping  .  .  .  Sister 
Mary  is  a  charming  creature.  .  .  .  We  feel 
that  she  ought  to  be  under  .  .  .  supervision. 
She  has  wandered  more  than  once,  poor  child. 
I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  Ciss  ...  in 
one  of  those  .  .  .  places.  Dromore  says  they 
are  asylums  under  another  name.     And  the 


OLD,  UNHAPPY,  FAR-OFF  THINGS      19 

specialist  .  .  .  who  saw   Ciss   said   the   cloud 
would  pass." 

"There  is  only  one  way,"  Maurice  Grace  re- 
peated with  quiet  passion.  "What  have  I  to 
offer  another  Avoman?" 

Some  one  had  called  Lady  Dromore  the 
proudest  woman  in  Ireland.  Lord  Dromore's 
pride  by  hers  was  a  very  simple  thing.  Yet  it 
was  she  who  laid  before  Lord  Dromore  the 
peasant-born  doctor's  amazing  proposal ;  it  was 
she  who  met  Lord  Dromore's  gust  of  indigna- 
tion with  the  gentle  reminder  that  Ciss's  life, 
her  ultimate  reason,  depended  on  her  happi- 
ness. 

"I  have  been  broken-hearted  at  the  thought 
of  sending  poor  Ciss  away  from  us,"  she  said. 
"And  I  fear  the  poor  child  would  die  of  it." 

"What  does  a  man  w^ant  with  a  mad  wife?" 
Lord  Dromore  spluttered,  altering  the  line  of 
attack.  "A  doctor,  too!  He  doesn't  want  a 
taint  in  his  children." 

"There  will  be  no  taint,  and  he  knows  it. 
With  happiness  Ciss  will  become  what  she  was 
once.  He  was  very  explicit  about  it.  He  has 
no  doubt  at  all  that  with  happiness  Ciss's 
dreams  and  delusions  will  pass." 

"Then  she  will  turn  from  him,  seeing  him  for 
what  he  is." 

'I  do  not  think  so,"  Lady  Dromore  said  with 


<«i 


20       OLD,  UNHAPPY,  FAR-OFF  THINGS 

conviction.  "Any  woman  would  be  a  poor 
thing  who  could  turn  from  such  devotion." 

"I  am  amazed  at  you,  Edith,"  was  all  her 
husband  could  say. 

The  strange  marriage  took  place  at  Knock- 
lynn  Church  one  golden  autumn  morning ;  and 
Maurice  Grace  carried  off  his  bride  for  the 
lengthened  Italian  honeymoon  the  gener- 
osity of  the  Dromores  made  j^ossible,  which 
was  to  be  the  first  stage  of  Ciss's  perfect  recov- 
ery, mentally  and  bodily. 

The  marriage  was  barely  done  and  the  bridal 
pair  departed  when  there  came  a  thunderbolt 
out  of  the  clearing  sky.  Paul  Chadwick  was 
not  dead;  he  had  been  a  prisoner  in  the  hands 
of  the  cannibal  tribe  by  which  he  had  been  re- 
ported killed  and  eaten. 

'  When  the  news  came  Lord  and  Lady  Dro- 
more  looked  at  each  other  in  pale  consternation. 
How  were  they  to  meet  Paul  Chadwick  and 
tell  him  he  had  lost  his  bride  ?  He  adored  Ciss. 
It  was  to  have  been  his  last  adventure  before 
his  marriage.  How  were  they  to  welcome  him 
back  from  the  dead,  and  tell  him  that  his  bride 
had  been  snatched  from  him  by  something 
cruder  than  death  ? 

While  they  asked  themselves  and  each  other 
these  questions,  through  the  days  and  weeks 
that  intervened   before   Sir  Paul   Chadwick's 


OLD,  UNHAPPY,  FAR-OFF  THINGS      21 

return,  Ciss,  on  her  Italian  pilgrimage,  was 
every  day  gathering  her  lost  roses,  every  day 
becoming  more  a  delicate  and  radiant  shape  of 

joy- 

Strangers  encountering  the  oddly  assorted 
pair  saw  nothing  more  remarkable  about  that 
beautiful  Mrs.  Grace  than  something  that 
might  pass  for  absent-mindedness.  But  then 
she  was  so  absorbed  in  her  plain-looking  hus- 
band that  it  might  well  be  she  had  no  thoughts 
to  spare  for  others  in  his  absence.  They 
troubled  little  about  newspapers.  There  was 
a  strange  absence  of  letters  from  home.  The 
news  the  Dromores  had  to  give  would  wait  the 
telling. 

So  it  was  that  not  until  the  wonderful  honey- 
moon was  over  and  the  bridal  pair  back  in  their 
Dublin  house  did  Maurice  Grace  learn  that  the 
dead  had  returned,  the  dead  come  back,  it 
might  be,  to  push  him  from  his  stool. 


CHAPTER  II 

TWILIGHT 

Lady  Dromore  would  have  been  the  last 
person  in  the  world  to  have  shut  out  Ciss  from 
the  House  of  Dromore  because  she  had  mar- 
ried beneath  her;  because  her  husband  was  not 
conventionally  a  gentleman;  because  he  com- 
mitted such  solecisms  as  taking  the  water  in  his 
finger-bowl  to  be  for  the  purpose  of  washing 
his  fruit,  as  he  had  done  on  one  occasion,  ex- 
pressing a  simple  appreciation  of  the  sanitary 
aspect  of  the  measure.  She  had  not  moved  a 
muscle  then  as  she  imitated  the  action,  to  the 
horror  of  the  servants ;  and  she  had  felt  that  if 
any  one  else  were  to  reveal  his  blunders  to  him 
she  could  not  have  forgiven  the  busybody. 

What  did  it  matter,  she  thought  with  a  fine 
scorn,  supposing  the  mind  and  the  will  and  the 
heart  were  gentle,  while  she  sipped  her  tea 
from  a  saucer  on  an  occasion  when  Maurice 
Grace  had  done  the  like,  thanking  Heaven  as 
she  did  so  that  the  frank  critics  of  the  nursery 
were  not  present. 

Still,  with  Paul  Chadwick  settled  down  at 
the  gates  of  the  House  of  Dromore,  and  settled 

23 


24  TWILIGHT 

there  as  though  he,  the  wanderer,  who  in  his 
thirty  years  has  seen  many  wild  lands  and 
known  many  wild  peoples,  had  had  enough  of 
wandering,  it  was  a  different  matter. 

That  imprisonment,  with  no  possible  end,  as 
it  seemed,  except  to  be  killed  at  any  hour  and 
cooked  and  eaten  the  next,  had  had  no  great 
effect  on  him.  He  had  been  in  more  tight 
corners  than  any  man  of  his  age  in  Europe, 
and  he  had  never  been  afraid  of  tight  corners, 
or  hopeless  as  to  his  ability  to  wriggle  out  of 
them  in  time.  But  the  news  that  awaited  his 
return  at  Southampton,  where  Lord  and  Lady 
Dromore  were  waiting  for  him  as  his  vessel 
ground  along  the  pier,  with  faces  which  in 
themselves  carried  bad  news,  made  the  most 
profound  impression  upon  his  hitherto  gay  and 
careless  nature.  He  had  promised  Ciss  that  it 
would  be  his  last  journey  into  the  waste  places 
of  the  earth;  the  allurement  of  an  adventure 
had  drawn  him  away  from  her,  the  sweetest 
and  loveliest  bride  man  ever  won,  as  he  said  in 
his  grief.  He  had  chosen  "the  bright  face  of 
danger,"  and  he  had  lost  his  other  sweet  mis- 
tress, had  lost  her  in  a  sadder  way  than  by 
death. 

At  first  in  the  shock  of  the  ill-tidings  he  had 
been  desperate.  He  had  said  that  he  would  re- 
cover Ciss  from  the  man  who  had  won  her  be- 
cause of  her  affliction,  the  affliction  which  he 


TWILIGHT  25 

had  wrought ;  that  he  had  the  best  right  to  her ; 
that  his  love  would  win  her  back  to  reason ;  but 
even  in  the  throes  of  his  passion  and  despair  he 
knew  the  wildness  of  what  he  was  saying.  He 
reproached  Lord  and  Lady  Dromore  bitterly 
with  what  he  called  the  sacrifice  of  his  angel, 
and  was  so  unreasonable  that  Lord  Dromore 
resented  it,  while  Lady  Dromore  bore  with  him 
with  an  exquisite  sweetness  and  patience  that 
presently  charmed  away  his  madness. 

He  shut  himself  up  for  a  time  at  Arlo,  his 
great  old  house,  which,  standing  on  a  high  hill- 
side, dominated  the  country-side.  A  solitary 
man  in  the  great  rambling  old  house — there 
were  fifty  bedrooms  at  Arlo — with  a  dozen 
servants  nominally  to  attend  to  his  solitary 
wants,  his  was  a  case  that  weighed  heavily  on 
Lady  Dromore's  compassionate  heart,  and  on 
other  hearts  as  well.  She  often  wished  he 
would  go  back  to  his  old  life  of  wandering  and 
adventure ;  but  that  in  his  grief  seemed  to  him 
as  a  thing  which  had  cost  him  so  dear  that  for 
him  henceforth  renunciation  was  the  one  thing 
possible,  the  one  and  only  atonement. 

For  one  solitary  winter  he  never  even 
hunted.  He  might  be  met  with  riding  by 
lonely  and  little-frequented  roads;  or  you 
might  see  him  from  a  distance  standing  by  him- 
self contemplating  some  work  his  men  were 
doing;  for  Arlo  was  one  of  those  great  over- 


26  TWILIGHT 

grown  barracks,  which,  crumbling  in  many 
parts,  required  to  be  patched  and  repaired  con- 
stantly if  it  were  not  to  be  given  over  to  ruin 
and  the  rats. 

It  was  the  salvation  of  him  that  in  the  second 
winter  after  his  return  he  took  to  farming,  with 
an  energy  that  showed  that  the  old  spirit  was 
there  and  must  find  vent  somehow.  He  was  to 
be  met  with  in  fairs  and  markets ;  his  sheep  were 
on  the  hill-side,  and  his  cattle  on  the  old  pas- 
tures about  Arlo  which  had  not  been  broken 
within  the  memory  of  men.  Presently  the 
plowmen  with  their  teams  were  out  on  his  up- 
lands; and  now  he  might  be  met  with  riding 
about  his  own  business  or  his  tenants',  for, 
greatly  to  the  delight  of  the  tenantry,  his  re- 
covered energy  found  another  vent  in  looking 
after  his  business  instead  of  leaving  it  to  an  at- 
torney who  was  far  from  being  persona  grata 
with  the  people. 

When  these  things  came  about  the  Dromores 
breathed  more  freely.  Lord  Dromore  walked 
into  his  wife's  drawing-room  one  afternoon, 
jubilant  for  him,  Sir  Paul  Chadwick  following 
him. 

Nothing  was  said  between  him  and  Lady 
Dromore.  His  eyes  that  drooped  shyly  before 
hers,  looking  at  him  with  the  expression  they 
had  worn  for  her  little  Betty  on  that  occasion 
when  Father  Tracy's  prejudices  against  the 


TWILIGHT  27 

Aubreys  had  come  tumbling  down  in  a  heap, 
said  all  that  need  be  said  between  them. 

He  stayed  to  tea  and  afterwards  to  dinner  at 
the  House  of  Dromore.  Between  tea  and  din- 
ner he  was  carried  up  to  the  nursery ;  no  longer 
the  nursery  now,  but  the  schoolroom,  where 
Dermot,  the  eldest  boy,  was  poring  over  his  de- 
clensions, and  Sheila  and  Oona  and  Betty  and 
Brian,  and  even  little  Guy  had  grown  out  of 
all  knowledge. 

Betty  looked  shyly  at  him,  had  forgotten 
him.  The  little  girls  in  their  quaint  smocks 
grouped  about  their  lovely  mother  seemed  to 
him  beautiful,  like  a  cluster  of  httle  roses  about 
a  greater  one,  so  that  his  heart  was  soft.  So 
might  Ciss  have  looked  with  his  children.  He 
knew  somehow  that  Ciss  was  the  mother  of  a 
child,  the  child  of  the  low-born  fellow  who  had 
stolen  his  jewel  from  him. 

The  traces  of  suffering  on  his  handsome  face 
but  made  it  the  handsomer.  The  slight  has-- 
gardness,  the  depth  of  the  eyes  that  had  known 
grief,  did  his  comely  young  manhood  no  wrong. 
Lady  Dromore  liked  him  better  than  she  had 
ever  liked  him  in  his  old,  happy  days.  And 
after  that  renewal  of  the  old  ties  between  him 
and  the  House  of  Dromore  he  was  no  longer 
solitary.  He  came  again  and  again,  and  was 
often  to  be  found  in  the  schoolroom,  where  the 
children  adored  him  and  he  made  a  special  pet 


28  TWILIGHT 

of  Betty,  who  was  brown  and  comely  and  al- 
ways dancing  about  like  a  little  brown  moth. 
Betty  was  quite  unlike  the  other  fair  children. 

The  intimacy  settled  the  matter  of  Ciss  and 
her  husband  being  received  at  the  House  of 
Dromore,  settled  it  for  Lady  Dromore,  for 
whom  nothing  else  would  have  settled  it. 

And  indeed  there  seemed  no  reason  to  trou- 
ble about  Ciss,  who  seemed  perfectly  happy 
with  her  husband  and  baby  when  Lady  Dro- 
more made  a  pilgi'image  to  Dublin  for  the  ex- 
press purpose  of  seeing  her,  as  she  did  two  or 
three  times  a  year. 

Maurice  Grace  seemed  likely  to  succeed 
in  his  profession.  Perhaps  his  devotion,  his 
painstakingness,  made  amends  for  lack  of  bril- 
liancy, and  for  an  outward  appearance  which 
some  peoj^le  said  forbade  any  idea  of  his  ever 
becoming  a  fashionable  doctor.  The  three 
thousand  pounds  which  Ciss  had  brought  him 
had  established  him  in  practice  in  a  thorough- 
fare which  was  generallj^  believed  to  be  the  high 
road  to  Merrion  Square.  Westland  Row  was 
lucky.  One  doctor  after  another  had  stepped 
from  that  dingy  highway  to  the  splendors  of 
Merrion  Square.  Why,  Maurice  Grace's  three 
predecessors  in  the  house  he  occupied  were  now 
men  of  light  and  leading  in  the  profession. 

Lady  Dromore  had  everything  but  a  sense 
of  humor.     And   poor   Ciss's   married   estate 


TWILIGHT  29 

seemed  to  her  only  not  tragical  because  Maurice 
Grace  still  lived  in  a  state  of  rapt  ecstasy  in  his 
possession  of  Ciss,  coupled  with  a  wonder  at  his 
own  bewildering  good  fortune  which  Lady 
Dromore  found  very  touching. 

She  saw  Ciss  in  a  dark  little  house  shaken 
incessantly  by  the  roar  and  rattle  of  the  trains. 
A  dingy  servant  opened  the  door  for  her,  on 
her  first  and  succeeding  visits ;  the  face  of  the 
servant  might  be  changed,  but  the  dinginess 
was  an  established  thing.  Through  a  hall 
floored  with  yellowish  brown  oil-cloth,  papered 
with  a  horrible  shiny  paper  to  match.  Lady 
Dromore  went  up  a  staircase  of  an  equally  de- 
pressing aspect  and  was  shown  into  a  room 
overlooking  the  noisy  street,  where  she  would 
find  Ciss  playing  with  the  baby,  or  Ciss  would 
find  her,  flying  in  a  rapture  to  welcome  her. 
Ciss  in  the  hideous  room  might  have  had  a  cer- 
tain humorous  appeal  to  those  gifted  with  the 
most  desirable  of  all  the  gifts.  But  Lady 
Dromore  could  have  wept  over  her. 

Lord  Dromore  never  accompanied  his  wife 
on  these  visits.  He  could  not  have  endured  to 
find  Ciss  in  the  dreary  house,  which  looked 
across  to  the  windows  above  a  butcher's  shop, 
kept  with  a  brightness  very  unlike  poor  Ciss's 
dingj^  windows. 

Ciss  never  seemed  to  notice  the  ugliness  of 
the  room.     There  was  a  wall-paper  of  bluish 


30  TWILIGHT 

white  sprawled  over  with  great  leaves  picked 
out  with  a  line  of  base  gilding.  The  wall- 
paper was  grimy  in  parts.  A  row  of  chairs 
covered  in  black  shiny  horse-hair  stood  round  it 
at  intervals,  and  there  was  a  sofa  of  the  same 
depressing  material.  The  carpet,  a  bright 
Brussels,  with  a  design  of  cabbage  roses  and 
ferns,  was  littered  with  the  baby's  belongings 
and  Ciss's.  There  were  a  couple  of  dogs  who 
did  not  hesitate  to  bring  their  bones  into  Ciss's 
drawing-room,  where  in  those  early  days  they 
kept  company  on  the  carpet's  roses  with  the 
baby's  discarded  crusts.  There  were  red 
moreen  curtains  at  the  windows,  a  band  of 
bright  yellow  bordering  them.  On  a  dusty 
day  in  summer  the  dust  was  over  everything; 
in  winter  the  room  was  so  dark  that  Lady  Dro- 
more  invariably  sat  on  the  dogs  in  her  efforts  to 
find  a  vacant  chair. 

Ciss  was  as  beautiful  as  ever,  but  vague,  in 
the  clouds,  like  a  lovely,  absent-minded  child. 

She  had  a  visitor  one  day  when  Lad}^  Dro- 
more  was  present,  a  stout,  elderly  person, 
dressed,  on  a  warm,  dustj^  day,  in  black  satin, 
black  velvet  and  bugles,  whose  eyes  roamed  in 
wondering  contempt  over  Ciss's  drawing-room. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  a  glory -hole?"  she 
asked,  when  Ciss  had  gone  up  to  fetch  Baby. 
Ciss  had  omitted  to  introduce  them,  and  Lady 
Dromore  had  not  impressed  Ciss's  visitor,  who 


TWILIGHT  31 

was  as  little  aware  of  the  exquisiteness  of  her 
gown  of  dull  blue  crepe  de  Chine,  with  its 
touches  of  old  lace,  as  she  was  of  the  subtle 
distinction  of  her  face  and  figure.  "It's  a 
shame,  so  it  is,  to  see  that  poor  husband  of  hers 
slaving  himself  to  death  for  her  and  she  keep- 
ing such  a  house  as  this  for  him.  I  wonder 
where  at  all  she  came  from?  None  of  us 
know.  She  can't  be  much,  anyway,  to  keep 
her  house  like  this." 

Lady  Dromore  was  saved  from  answering 
by  the  return  of  Ciss  with  her  baby  held  high 
in  her  arms.  She  looked  from  one  to  the  other, 
from  Lady  Dromore  to  Mrs.  Mooney,  with  a 
delightful  arch  appeal.  She  was  like  that 
ISIadonna  of  Annibale  Caracci  who  lifts  a 
finger  in  warning  at  the  little  St.  John  laying 
a  mischievous  dimpled  finger  on  the  sleeping 
infant's  foot.  She  was  like  Sir  Joshua's  Mrs. 
Linley — is  it? — with  a  finger  on  her  lip  as  she 
looks  down  at  the  sleeping  child  in  her  arms. 

She  held  the  little  Cecilia  for  Lady  Dro- 
more's  inspection.  On  the  two  exquisite  heads, 
close  together,  came  a  shaft  of  sunlight  lighting 
the  pale  hair  to  gold. 

Mrs.  Mooney  had  reared  eleven  children,  so 
supposed  she  knew  something  about  them. 
She,  too,  desired  to  inspect  Baby  and  to  be 
taken  into  council  about  her  teething  and  other 
matters. 


32  TWILIGHT 

But  Ciss  was  not  the  comfortable  sort.  At 
the  first  word  of  teething  and  teething-fits  and 
convulsions  she  snatched  up  Cecilia  and  fled. 
When  she  came  back  without  her,  laughing  and 
flushed,  a  long  piece  of  her  hair  falling  over 
her  shoulder,  Mrs.  Mooney  rose  with  an  air  of 
offended  dignity  and  took  her  departure.  She 
had  not  even  been  offered  tea. 

"Must  you  go  so  soon?"  asked  Ciss,  with  the 
air  of  remoteness  which  made  the  words  an 
added  offense. 

"She  never  asked  me  if  I'd  a  mouth  on  me," 
Mrs.  Mooney  reported  to  her  husband;  "but 
stood  there  smirking  at  me  as  though  she  could 
see  through  me.  I  don't  believe  she  heard  a 
word  I  said.  Grace  may  be  all  very  well  in 
himself,  but  shell  never  bring  him  the  patients. 
After  all,  Maclnerney  has  done  me  very  well 
up  to  this;  he  may  do  me  for  the  rest  of  my 
time.  I'm  not  going  to  put  myself  out  and 
change  my  doctor  to  be  treated  like  that." 

But  Ciss,  quite  unconscious  that  she  had 
alienated  a  good  patient  and  influential  person 
within  her  small  circle  from  her  husband, 
clapped  her  hands  like  a  child  when  the  door 
had  closed  behind  Mrs.  Mooney. 

"I  don't  know  what  they  come  for,  Edith,'* 
she  said.  "They  are  always  coming  and  they 
don't  like  me  a  bit,  even  when  I  try  to  be  civil 
to  them  for  Maurice's  sake."     She  had  learned 


TWILIGHT  33 

to  call  her  husband  Maurice  instead  of  Paul ;  he 
had  made  a  point  of  it  which  had  mystified  her 
at  first.  "Now  let  us  enjoy  ourselves,  Edith. 
You  are  going  to  take  me  to  the  Shelbourne  for 
tea  like  the  last  time,  aren't  you?  And  after- 
wards we  shall  sit  in  the  Green  and  you  will 
tell  me  about  Dromore  and  the  children." 

So  cheerfully  did  Ciss  whistle  her  husband's 
patients  down  the  wind. 


CHAPTER  III 

CECILIA 

Cecilia  Grace  grew  up  to  a  solitary  life — 
which,  however,  she  never  found  lonely. 

She  was  a  child  of  passionate  attachments, 
and  she  adored  her  exquisite  young  mother. 
Ciss  would  never  be  anything  but  young;  the 
suffering  of  the  past,  which  had  been  great 
enough  to  snap  something  or  other  in  the  del- 
icate mechanism  of  her  brain,  had  given  her  im- 
munity, it  seemed,  from  future  suffering. 

The  child  gi'ew  up  to  a  \dsion  of  a  softly- 
smiling,  rose-and-white  mother,  with  blue  eyes 
like  the  eyes  of  a  child,  perpetually  looking  out- 
ward and  not  inward,  as  the  eyes  of  other 
grown  people  looked.  Mamma  was  always 
ready  to  play  with  Baby.  If  Baby  was  ill  or 
fretful,  mamma  generally  kept  out  of  the  way, 
and  left  the  small  creature  to  the  care  of  Nan- 
nie D'Arcy,  one  of  those  soft-bosomed,  soft- 
eyed  Irish  nurses,  whom  a  kind  providence  had 
sent  to  be  Cecilia's  nurse. 

Cecilia  learned  quite  early  that  mamma  was 
not  to  be  troubled,  that  she  could  not  be  ex- 
pected to  know  anything  of  a  small  person's 

35 


36  CECILIA 

discomforts  or  ailments,  or  needs.  If  there 
was  anything  Nannie  could  not  supply,  then 
the  right  person  to  go  to  was  papa. 

Papa  was  always  busy ;  but  not  so  busy  that 
he  could  not  spare  time  for  his  Httle  daughter. 
He  had  a  carriage  by  the  time  Cecilia  was  five 
or  six  years  old;  and  he  sometimes  took  her 
with  him  on  his  rounds.  She  waited,  quiet  as 
a  mouse,  while  he  visited  his  patients ;  and  when 
he  rejoined  her  and  his  attention  was  distracted 
from  her — for  he  sometimes  read  and  often 
made  notes  in  a  book,  being  a  very  busy  man, 
and  having  to  do  his  work  at  all  times  and  in 
all  places — she  never  disturbed  him.  It  was 
quite  enough  pleasure  for  her  to  be  seated  be- 
side him,  looking  up  at  his  preoccupied, 
swarthy  face,  under  the  dark  hair  which  had  so 
rapidly  become  sprinkled  with  gray. 

Cecilia  adored  mamma  and  was  fond  of  her 
nurse  and  friends  and  the  dogs  and  Granny. 
But  after  all  her  great  devotion  was  for  papa. 

While  they  were  yet  living  in  Westland 
Row,  before  the  great  rush  of  business  had 
come  to  Maurice  Grace,  they  often  went  off  on 
a  Sunday  morning,  after  an  early  Mass,  to  the 
little  farm  under  the  mountains  which  belonged 
to  Granny,  Maurice  Grace's  mother.  The 
Bawn  Farm,  its  house  and  all  its  belongings, 
made  up  an  enchanted  land  for  Cecilia.  The 
little  old-fashioned  cottage  under  deep  thatch 


CECILIA  37 

was  a  maze  of  bowery,  flowery  rooms,  full  of 
the  most  wonderful  things  to  a  child's  imagina- 
tion. The  very  flowers  on  the  wall-paper,  the 
pattern  of  the  faded  chintz  on  the  bed-hang- 
ings, remained  in  Cecilia's  mind  in  later  years 
as  something  known  in  fairyland.  There  were 
green  spotted  mirrors,  very  dim  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  rooms,  their  gilt  frames  swathed  in 
yellow  tarlatan  against  the  flies.  There  were 
wonderful  patchwork  quilts  on  the  beds,  the 
pattern  of  which  Cecilia  used  to  trace  in  the 
early  summer  mornings  when  she  slept  at  the 
Bawn  Farm,  while  all  the  house  was  sleeping 
but  herself;  when  the  baby  starlings  were 
awake  and  calling  for  breakfast  in  their  nests 
in  the  thatch,  and  the  calves  under  the  apple 
trees  in  the  orchard  were  clamoring  for  their 
steaming  morning  buckets  of  milk.  Her  little 
fingers  would  go  from  one  gay  delightful  patch 
to  another,  tracing  them  as  though  they  were 
countries  on  a  map,  and  the  delight  of  it  would 
last  till  Bridget,  the  big,  pleasant  maid-of-all- 
work  at  the  farm,  would  come  in  to  dress  Miss 
Cecilia  for  breakfast,  a  wonderful  breakfast  in 
the  farmhouse  kitchen,  where  she  had  dain- 
ties unheard  of  at  home.  Delicious  days  were 
those  at  the  Bawn  Farm,  where  Cecilia  was  the 
apple  of  her  eye  to  old  Mrs.  Grace,  and  knew 
every  one  by  name,  when  she  was  carted  about 
the  fields  on  a  load  of  scented  hav,  and  was 


38  CECILIA 

friends  with  the  farm-horses  and  the  dogs  and 
cats  and  every  hving  thing  on  the  farm. 

Once  Ceciha  heard  a  conversation  between 
her  Granny  and  Father  Phihp,  a  rosy  cheeked, 
benevolent  old  priest,  who  patted  Cecilia's  head 
whenever  he  met  her  at  her  Granny's  and 
looked  at  her  with  a  pleased  air. 

"Unspotted  from  the  world,"  said  Father 
Phil;  "that's  what  they  are,  mother  and  cliild. 
Why,  they're  shining  white;  that's  what  they 
are — shining  white." 

"The  child  has  her  wits  about  her,  glory  be 
to  God!"  said  Granny;  "as  for  the  mother, 
why  she  is  just  a  child  that  never  grew  up. 
I  often  think  it's  hard  on  my  poor  boy — such 
a  good  boy.  But  there;  sure  he's  as  fond  and 
as  proud  of  her  as  though  an  angel  in  heaven 
had  stooped  to  him.  I'd  rather  have  her,  my- 
self, more  like  other  people." 

"It's  maybe  God's  way  of  keeping  her  un- 
spotted from  the  world,"  said  Father  Phil. 

And  then  they  discovered  the  child,  hidden 
away  behind  the  window  curtains,  with  a  big 
volume  of  ^sop's  fables  in  her  lap,  and  they 
seemed  a  little  dismayed  at  the  discovery. 

Cecilia  startled  her  father  a  day  or  two  later 
by  repeating  a  portion  of  this  conversation  to 
him.  She  had  been  turning  it  over  in  her  small 
mind. 

"I  heard  Father  Phil  and  Granny  talking," 


CECILIA  39 

she  said;  "and  I  think  it  was  about  mamma 
and  me.  Granny  said  mamma  was  a  child 
that  had  never  grown  up.  How  could  mamma 
be  a  child  when  she  is  ever  so  many  years  older 
than  me?" 

"It  was  only  grown-up  people's  way  of  talk- 
ing," said  Maurice  Grace,  "which  little  girls 
cannot  be  expected  to  understand.  But  I 
think  it  meant  that  mother  is  something  very 
precious  which  you  and  I  shall  have  to  take 
care  of,  little  girl.  You  understand  that,  don't 
you,  Cecilia?  that  mother  is  the  most  precious 
thing  in  the  world,  and  that  you  and  I  must 
never  think  of  ourselves  when  it  is  a  question  of 
mother?" 

"Yes,  I  understand,"  little  Cecilia  said 
sedately ;  but  it  was  very  doubtful  if  she  did. 

It  was  part  of  Maurice  Grace's  carefulness 
of  Ciss  that  when  the  time  came  at  which  he 
might  have  moved  into  Merrion  Square  he  did 
not,  but  still  remained  at  the  dingy  house  in 
Westland  Row.  But  he  only  used  the  place 
for  professional  duties;  and  Ciss  and  the  child 
were  established  in  a  little  house  out  in  the 
country  near  the  mountains,  hidden  away  be- 
hind green  trellises  in  a  garden  of  flowers. 
He  had  a  tender  sensitiveness  about  what 
might  be  said  of  Ciss,  what  doubtless  was  said, 
that  she  was  unlike  other  people,  "not  all 
there,"  and  so  on.     The  callers  were  less  likely 


40  CECILIA 

to  follow  Ciss  to  the  White  Cottage,  and  it  was 
easier  for  him  to  say  to  those  who  suggested 
calling  on  his  wife  that  Ciss  was  delicate 
and  unable  to  keep  up  the  social  observ- 
ances. It  was  a  hardship  to  him,  profession- 
ally, to  have  a  wife  who  received  his  patients 
when  they  happened  to  come  her  way  with  a 
sweet,  vacant  smile  and  had  plainly  nothing  to 
say  to  them.  But  he  would  not  have  changed 
anything  about  Ciss  if  he  could. 

During  the  rush  and  pressure  of  the  days  he 
thought  of  Ciss  at  the  White  Cottage  with  a 
quiet  joy.  The  other  doctors'  helpmates 
bustled  about,  helping  their  husbands  prac- 
tically by  paying  and  receiving  calls,  by  dis- 
pensing hospitality,  by  keeping  themselves  and 
their  carriages  and  horses  perpetually  in  evi- 
dence. It  was  a  handicap  to  Maurice  Grace 
that  his  wife  did  not  do  the  same ;  but  he  would 
not  have  exchanged  Ciss  for  the  most  efficient 
of  helpmates. 

As  the  years  passed  Ciss  secluded  herself 
more  and  more  within  the  walls  of  the  White 
Cottage.  People  said  between  themselves  that 
there  was  something  odd  about  Dr.  Grace's 
wife;  and  even  the  most  persistent,  whether 
from  real  kindliness  or  a  meaner  motive,  came 
in  time  to  leave  off  ringing  the  bell  at  the  gate 
of  the  White  Cottage,  since  the  mistress  was 
always   out   or  not   at   home,   or   indisposed. 


CECILIA  41 

Nannie  D'Ai'cy  and  her  sister  Bride  were  now 
in  charge  of  the  White  Cottage,  where  they 
guarded  the  mistress  and  Miss  Ceciha  and  all 
the  master's  interests  with  loving  carefulness. 

Cecilia  for  some  years  went  to  and  fro  be- 
tween a  neighboring  convent  school  and  her 
home.  The  distance  was  very  short,  and  it  was 
quite  safe  for  the  child  to  come  and  go  on  foot 
and  alone.  For  all  mother  and  daughter  saw 
of  the  city  beyond,  it  might  almost  as  well  have 
been  non-existent.  But  presently  it  was  de- 
cided that  Cecilia  should  have  a  few  years  in 
the  boarding-school  attached  to  the  convent, 
where  she  would  have  companions  of  her  own 
age.  She  had  been  growing  up  somewhat  too 
serious  and  thoughtful,  and  it  was  her  father's 
prescription  for  her  that  she  should  have  the 
companionship  of  children  of  her  own  age. 

Cecilia  was  popular  at  school,  where  her 
beauty  and  height  and  grace,  her  look  of  wild- 
rose  innocence,  her  lovely  voice,  made  her  the 
object  of  a  considerable  amount  of  school-girl 
adoration.  Many  of  the  nuns'  pupils  were 
girls  of  the  middle  classes;  the  daughters  of 
fai-mers  and  the  better-class  of  shopkeepers  in 
Dublin  as  well  as  the  daughters  of  Dublin's 
professional  men  and  officials  who  happened  to 
belong  to  the  old  religion. 

The  nuns  made  a  great  pet  of  Cecilia.  They 
said  among  themselves  in  their  hour  of  demure 


4>2  CECILIA 

chatter  and  gaiety  in  the  community-room  or 
the  garden,  that  Ceciha  was  cut  out  for  a  nun; 
at  least  the  young  nuns  said  it.  Some  of  the 
others,  notably  that  notable  nun,  Mother 
Margaret,  disagreed.  Cecilia,  with  her  hands 
on  the  organ,  might  have  sat  for  her  name- 
sake in  heaven.  Cecilia  crowned  with  roses  on 
Rosary  Sunday  might  have  been  Elizabeth  of 
Hungary  with  the  beggars'  bread  turned  to 
roses  in  her  lap,  or  Dorothy  gathering  roses 
in  heaven  to  send  for  a  sign  to  her  pagan  lover 
on  earth. 

She  might  also  have  been  Proserpine  gather- 
ing flowers  in  the  meadows  of  Enna;  but  the 
nuns  would  not  have  thought  of  that.  The 
nuns,  who  had  transformed  the  god  Pan  on 
the  old  organ,  over  the  yellow  keys  of  which 
Cecilia  stretched  her  young,  slender  fingers, 
into  a  most  unedifying  David,  covering  the 
shaggy  hide  and  cleft  feet  with  a  crimson 
mantle  and  the  wild  hair  with  a  kingly  crown, 
would  assuredly  not  have  likened  Cecilia  to  any 
creation  of  the  pagans. 

Cecilia  stayed  on  at  the  convent  for  her 
music  and  singing  long  after  she  might  have 
been  supposed,  according  to  the  very  unexact- 
ing  standards  of  those  among  whom  she  lived, 
to  have  "finished  her  education."  In  fact,  at 
an  age  when  her  contemporaries  were  going  to 
dances  and  having  lovers,  she  still  stayed  on 


CECILIA  43 

at  the  convent  and  was  well  content  that  it 
should  be  so.  She  was  still  verj'^  young  for  her 
age. 

She  was  quite  well  aware  of  what  high 
destinies  some  of  the  nuns  allotted  to  her. 
"We  cannot  all  be  nuns,"  they  would  say,  with 
a  compassionate  sigh  for  the  less  favored  than 
themselves.  "Some  of  us  must  marry." 
Cecilia  listening  to  them  had  nothing  to  say 
against  the  higher  destiny.  The  woman  was 
not  yet  awake  in  Cecilia. 

She  was,  of  course,  one  of  the  shining  lights 
of  the  school,  and  was  often  quoted  as  an  ex- 
ample to  be  followed  to  the  more  turbulent 
ones.  The  young  nuns  already  treated  her 
with  an  air  of  her  being  one  of  themselves ;  and 
some  of  the  more  enterprising  of  the  school- 
girls had  thoughts  of  asking  her  to  spend  a 
portion  of  the  vacation  with  them,  or  at  least 
to  visit  them  at  their  houses.  The  school  was 
innocently  proud  of  Cecilia.  It  would  be  good 
to  show  off  her  grace  and  beauty  to  the  parents 
and  brothers  and  friends  at  home,  feeling  a  re- 
flected glory  from  the  admiration  she  would 
excite. 

Then  happened  suddenly  an  event  of  the 
first  magnitude,  something  quite  unprece- 
dented in  the  convent  history. 

Hitherto  the  great  personages  of  the  con- 
vent   feast-days    and    breaking-up    days    had 


44  CECILIA 

been  ecclesiastics,  reverend  and  old.  To  kiss 
the  Bishop's  ring,  to  receive  a  kindly  word  of 
praise  and  encouragement  from  some  such 
saintly  person,  had  hitherto  been  enough  to 
bring  the  happy  flush  to  the  cheeks  of  the  girls 
of  Mount  St.  Mary's.  Now  there  was  some- 
thing widely  different. 

A  very  gi-eat  personage  indeed,  not  in  the 
spiritual  order,  was  visiting  Dublin.  The  very 
great  personage,  accompanied  by  his  consort, 
had  intimated  an  intention  of  paying  Mount 
St.  Mary's  a  visit. 

For  days  after  the  official  intimation  had 
been  received  the  convent  was  in  a  state  of 
breathless  excitement.  An  address  of  wel- 
come had  to  be  written  and  got  by  heart  by  a 
pupil  who  could  be  trusted  not  to  take  stage- 
fright  at  the  important  moment.  A  concert 
had  to  be  got  up,  and  Mother  Margaret,  the 
music  mistress,  was  incessantly  busy,  arrang- 
ing what  her  pupils  were  to  sing  and  practic- 
ing them  in  their  parts.  There  was  to  be  a 
lunch,  and  Sister  Pelagic,  the  French  nun  who 
presided  over  the  kitchen,  was  all  but  dis- 
tracted. There  was  a  frightful  holocaust  of 
birds  in  the  poultry  yard,  of  innocent  beasts 
on  the  farmery;  Mount  St.  Mary's  prided  it- 
self that  it  was  self-providing  as  well  as  self- 
supporting.  Such  scrubbing  and  whitewash- 
ing and  dusting  and  bees-waxing,  where  all  had 


CECILIA  45 

been  spotless  before,  was  never  heard  of  at 
Mount  St.  Mary's.  The  girls  who  were  to 
take  a  prominent  part  in  the  reception  of  the 
great  personages  were  all  having  new  frocks  to 
the  design  of  Mother  Magdalen,  who  once,  out 
in  the  world,  had  been  a  modiste. 

Cecilia  was  to  sing,  and  Mother  Margaret's 
choice  for  her  fell  on  some  of  the  old  Irish 
songs  which  are  so  full  of  wailing  love  and 
sorrow.  Cecilia,  with  her  pale  gold  head  and 
exquisite  color,  in  her  frock  of  Indian  muslin, 
a  broad,  green  sash  across  her  young  breast, 
a  wreath  of  shamrocks  in  her  hair,  was  going 
to  be  an  immense  credit  to  them.  Dumpy 
little  school-girls,  with  snub  noses  and  freckles, 
swelled  and  grew  tall  within  themselves  when 
they  thought  how  Cecilia  was  going  to  appear 
to  the  great  personages. 

At  last  the  day  came;  a  glorious  June  day, 
when  everything  was  looking  its  best:  all  the 
roses  in  bloom  in  the  gardens;  the  trees  still 
light  green  against  a  sky  of  pearl  and  sap- 
phire the  hills  grayly  blue;  the  cut  hay  in  the 
meadows  smelling  deliciously. 

The  excitement  at  the  convent  was  at  fever- 
heat.  The  nuns  and  the  children  had  been 
praying  for  fine  weatlier,  and  their  prayers  had 
been  answered.  Hardly  an  eye  had  closed  in 
the  dormitory  on  the  night  preceding  the  great 
occasion. 


46  CECILIA 

They  were  all  waiting  in  line  before  the  long, 
low  white  convent  when  the  glittering  proces- 
sion of  carriages  and  horsemen  swung  round 
the  corner  of  the  drive  and  drew  up  in  front 
of  the  Reverend  Mother.  The  scene  was  a 
charming  one;  and  the  great  personage,  who 
was  nothing  if  not  a  diplomat,  expressed  him- 
self very  graciously  concerning  it. 

Everything  went  well.  Aileen  Dunne,  who 
had  to  read  the  address  of  welcome  neither 
ran  away  nor  dropped  in  her  place  as  she  had 
prophesied  she  would.  The  lunch  did  honor 
to  Sister  Pelagic,  and  was  much  enjoyed  by 
the  great  personage.  His  quiet,  beautiful  con- 
sort said  little,  but  smiled  her  kindness  on  nuns 
and  children.  The  time  approached  for  the 
concert  at  which  Cecilia,  in  the  thoughts  of 
the  generous  school-girls,  was  destined  to  have 
her  triumph. 

Fortunately,  the  long,  double  drawing-room 
of  the  old  eighteenth-century  house,  when 
people  built  as  though  for  time  and  immor- 
tality, was  capable  of  holding  a  good  many 
people. 

The  girls  at  the  back  craned  their  necks  to 
see  the  great  personages,  and  the  lesser  great 
personages  accompanying  them,  who  sat  in  gilt 
French  chairs  with  the  Reverend  Mother  and 
some  of  the  older  nuns;  and  also  to  see  the 
performers  who  were  to  do  the  convent  credit 


CECILIA  47 

or  discredit  according  as  they  acquitted  them- 
selves. 

The  first  item  on  the  programme,  a  piano- 
forte duet,  was  clapj^ed  pohtely  by  the  guests. 
Next  there  was  a  violin  performance,  with 
which  the  great  personages  expressed  them- 
selves greatly  pleased. 

At  last  came  the  moment  the  school-girls 
waited  for  so  eagerly.  Mother  IMargaret  took 
her  place  at  the  piano.  Cecilia  Grace  came 
forward  and  stood  on  the  platform,  her  song 
held  in  hands  that  shook  visibly,  her  eyes  down, 
her  color  coming  and  going.  For  an  instant 
she  looked  as  though  she  might  take  flight; 
she  wore  such  an  air  as  a  Greek  sculptor  might 
have  caught  and  made  immortal.  Then — a 
look  passed  between  her  and  JNIother  Mar- 
garet. She  braced  herself.  The  nuns  smiled 
at  one  another  with  an  air  of  immense  relief, 
and  the  pure  young  voice  rose  in  the  first  bars 
of  the  song — 

"I  would  I  were  on  yonder  hill." 

When  she  had  finished,  the  great  personage 
asked  for  an  encore.  He  was  obviously  de- 
lighted with  Cecilia  and  her  singing. 

"Who  is  the  lovely  creature?"  his  consort 
asked  of  Mother  Paul,  who  was  nearest  to  her. 

Again  Cecilia  played  a  harp  solo  in  which 
she  looked  more  beautiful  than  before.     As  the 


48  CECILIA 

last  silvery  notes  died  away  in  distance  there 
was  a  stillness;  then  the  great  personages  led 
the  applause. 

Cecilia  bowing  on  the  platform,  as  she  had 
been  told  to  do,  lifted  her  shy,  bewildered  eyes 
and  glanced  beyond  those  dazzling  front  rows 
to  the  familiar  faces.  There  were  her  school- 
fellows clapping  furiously;  the  sight  of  their 
good  everyday  faces  gave  her  courage.  There 
was  Gran,  in  her  black  bonnet  with  purple 
ribbons  and  her  black  plush  cape,  among  the 
near  friends  of  the  performers  who  had  been 
permitted  to  be  present.  Gran  was  looking 
delighted.  She  sat  a  little  isolated  among  the 
mothers  and  maiden  aunts  and  married  sisters 
of  Cecilia's  school-fellows,  but  she  seemed  quite 
unaware  of  her  isolation. 

Cecilia's  eyes  came  back  shyly  to  her  harp 
by  which  she  was  standing.  On  their  way 
something,  some  one,  intercepted  them.  A 
young  gentleman  who  sat  in  the  last  of  the 
second  row  of  chairs  was  looking  at  Ceciha 
with  something  in  his  expression  which  all  at 
once  made  Cecilia  feel  shyer  than  she  had  felt 
before  the  kind  eyes  of  the  great  personage,  the 
mild  gaze  of  the  stately  little  lady  by  his  side, 
or  even  the  lorgnettes  of  some  of  the  Viceregal 
party. 

For  a  second  she  stood  irresolute.  Then, 
unconscious  of  the  fact  that  the  great  person- 


CECILIA  49 

age's  encore  Implied  a  command,  she  glided 
away  from  the  platform  and  sought  the  com- 
fortable shelter  of  the  room  behind,  which 
served  as  a  dressing-room  on  such  occasions  as 
these. 

"What  happened  you?"  asked  JNIother  Mar- 
garet, tender  as  a  real  mother.  "You  were 
getting  on  so  well.  Every  one  is  delighted 
with  you.  You  must  go  back  and  play  again. 
Courage,  Ceciha,  for  the  sake  of  the  convent. 
Go  back  and  play  to  them,  child." 

Cecilia  went  back  and  played.  But  she 
looked  no  more  towards  the  chair  at  the  end 
of  the  second  row,  although  she  was  aware 
that  all  the  time  some  one  watched  her  from 
there  whose  gaze  made  her  feel  more  perturbed 
than  the  admiration  of  the  great  people. 


CHAPTER  IV 

NEW    KIN 

"I  WONDER  why  mamma  has  not  come,"  said 
Ceciha.  "It  was  bad  enough  that  papa  was 
too  busy;  but  mamma?  She  would  have  been 
so  pleased." 

"Time  wasn't  made  for  the  likes  of  your 
mother,"  said  Gran.  "As  like  as  not  she'll 
come  streelin'  in  when  it's  all  over." 

They  were  strolling  in  the  grounds  while  the 
great  personages  were  entertained  to  tea. 
There  were  many  groups  of  school  children  and 
their  friends,  nuns  and  their  friends,  similarly 
engaged.  It  was  a  great  day  for  the  convent, 
and  general  holiday  of  course.  As  soon  as 
the  great  people  had  departed  the  little  peo- 
ple were  to  have  their  tea. 

Cecilia  had  slipped  away  with  Gran,  quite 
unconscious  that  the  Reverend  Mother  was 
asking  for  her.  It  had  been  an  ordeal,  and  she 
was  very  glad  it  was  over,  very  glad  to  be 
with  kind  homety  Gran,  away  from  all  the 
eyes  and  the  admiration. 

She  wanted  to  be  alone  to  think.  Who  was 
the  young  gentleman  who  had  looked  at  her 

51 


52  NEW  KIN 

with  such  admiration?  And  what  was  there 
in  his  look  more  than  ordinary  admiration? 
CeciHa  had  never  any  secrecies  in  her  innocent 
life.  Now  she  was  conscious  of  the  possession 
of  a  secret,  and  it  made  her  hot  and  shy.  What 
did  it  mean  when  a  gentleman  looked  at  a  girl 
in  that  way?  She  was  thrilled  with  sudden 
blushes.  Not  for  worlds  would  she  have  had 
Gran  know  that  she  was  thinking  of  a  strange 
young  gentleman  who  had  looked  at  her  and 
sent  something  quivering  from  his  heart  to  her 
heart.  She  felt  her  heart  all  of  a  tremor  in- 
side her  slender  young  body.  What  did  he 
mean  by  looking  at  her  like  that?  And  what 
would  the  nuns  think,  the  nuns  so  many  of 
whom  had  dedicated  her  to  God?  Would 
they  think  her  wicked?  Cecilia  felt  dread- 
fully frightened  and  ashamed  of  her  thrills  and 
tremors.  And  mamma!  It  was  very  disap- 
pointing that  mamma  had  not  heard  her  play. 

Some  of  Gran's  old  wise  words  at  her  ears 
came  upon  her  like  a  sudden  douche  of  cold 
water. 

"It  isn't  the  praise  of  the  likes  o'  them  that 
matters,  avourneen,  for  sure  they've  nothing  to 
do  with  us  nor  we  with  them.  'Tis  only  a 
little  entertainment  for  them.  'Tis  what  we 
are  in  the  eyes  of  God,  and  what  we  are  to 
them  that  love  us  and  belong  to  us,  that  mat- 
ters.    Never  have  your  head  turned  by  the 


NEW  KIN  63 

like  o'  them,  acushla,  for  sure  it  stands  to  rea- 
son that  they  go  away  and  forget  that  they 
ever  so  much  as  laid  eyes  on  you." 

"Are  they  all  like  that,  Gran?"  asked 
Cecilia,  turning  appealing  ej^es  to  the  old  face ; 
she  felt  suddenly  chilled  and  wounded.  "Do 
you  think  people  like  them  are  never  friends 
with  people  like  us?" 

"What  nonsense  is  in  your  head,  child?" 
Mrs.  Grace  asked,  with  a  tenderness  that  be- 
lied the  harsh-sounding  words.  "Friendship, 
indeed!  'Tis  thinking  of  us  like  the  dirt  un- 
der their  feet  they'd  be.  They  didn't  show 
much  nature  to  your  poor  mother,  did  they, 
those  fine  relations  of  hers?  If  it  wasn't  that 
she  had  my  boy  to  depend  on.  .  .  . 
There,  sure  you  don't  know  anything  about 
it.  What's  the  good  of  raking  up  the  old 
troubles  ?" 

"I  remember,"  said  Cecilia,  vaguely,  "some 
one  who  used  to  come  to  see  mother — a  cousin 
of  hers,  I  think.  She  was  very  sweet.  Such 
a  soft,  lovely  voice,  and  her  way  with  a  little 
child  so  caressing.  I  don't  think  she  could 
ever  have  thought  of  any  one  as  the  dirt  un- 
der her  feet." 

"  'Tis  the  likes  of  her  that's  the  proudest. 
The  last  time  that  ever  she  came  to  see  your 
mother  'twas  at  the  Bawn  Farm.  Your 
mother  was  staying  with  me  for  a  few  days; 


64  NEW  KIN 

and  her  ladyship  was  in  Dublin,  and  she  drove 
down  to  see  her.  The  Patrick  Graces  were 
here  the  same  day.  Nothing  to  be  ashamed  of, 
the  Patrick  Graces.  Why,  he's  thought  a  deal 
about.  The  world  knows  he  could  be  a  Mem- 
ber of  Parliament  if  he  liked.  He  leaves  it 
for  Bernard.  I  remember  Patrick  Grace's 
first  pair  of  boots;  there  was  a  subscription 
got  up  to  buy  him  a  pair  so  that  he  might  get 
a  job,  and  I  gave  a  shilling.  Look  at  him 
now!  He  owns  five  farms,  and  Ballykilleen 
House  isn't  a  place  to  be  sneezed  at.  And 
Rosy  Grace  won't  as  much  as  lift  her  hand- 
kerchief if  she  lets  it  drop;  she'll  ring  a  bell 
for  a  servant  to  do  it.  She  was  very  genteel 
that  day  her  ladyship  came,  was  Rosy,  with  a 
deal  to  say  for  herself.  She  said  afterwards 
that  she  didn't  want  her  ladyship  to  think  she 
was  nobody.  And  it  was  cousin  this  and 
cousin  that  to  your  mother ;  and  she  tellin'  the 
cute  things  young  Barney  said  and  did.  Her 
ladyship  didn't  get  in  a  word  with  your  mother 
edgeways.  And  so  after  a  time  she  went 
away." 

They  had  wandered  down  by  the  fishponds, 
along  the  Dark  Walk,  its  many  trees  hollowed 
out  in  little  grottoes  containing  a  figure  of  the 
Madonna  or  some  saint  with  a  vase  of  flowers 
before  it;  they  were  in  a  coppice  through  which 
a  path  ran  that  led  by  a  stile  into  the  hay- 


NEW  KIN  55 

field  where  the  new  hay  was  gathered  in  fra- 
grant heaps. 

Gran's  reminiscences  of  the  Patrick  Graces 
had  come  as  a  cold  shock  on  Cecilia's  trem- 
bhng  rapture.  She  detested  the  Patrick 
Graces,  father,  mother,  and  son;  most  of  all 
Bernard  Grace,  with  his  black  curly  hair 
parted  in  the  middle,  his  white  teeth  and  heavy 
black  moustache,  his  dark,  coarse  comeliness, 
his  eyes,  yellow  in  the  w^hites  of  them,  which 
perturbed  lier  when  she  came  under  their 
glances  with  a  perturbation  very  different  from 
what  she  had  felt  for  the  strange  gentleman's 
glances,  something  much  more  distinctly  pain- 
ful and  unpleasant.  She  could  not  endure 
Bernard  Grace;  it  made  her  "goose-fleshy" 
when  he  looked  under  his  heavy  lashes  at  her 
and  tried  to  touch  her  hand.  But  Gran  was 
quite  proud  of  the  Patrick  Graces  and  their 
social  advancement;  so  Cecilia  kept  her 
thoughts  to  herself. 

They  sat  down  on  one  of  the  heaps  of  hay. 
Gran  having  first  lifted  her  new  maroon 
cashmere  skirt  so  that  it  should  not  come  in 
contact  with  the  hay.  She  was  quite  unaware 
of  how  she  had  brought  Cecilia's  thoughts  to 
the  ground  with  a  jerk.  She  herself  had  a 
great  admiration  for  Bernard  Grace,  who  rode 
his  horse  like  a  gentleman,  and  had  always  a 
couple   of   dogs   at   his   heels,   and   was   very 


56  NEW  KIN 

shrewd  and  careful  of  his  money  while  attend- 
ing all  the  races  in  the  country;  who  always 
had  a  horse  or  dog  to  show,  so  that  he  had  the 
reputation  of  being  a  sportsman,  or  thought 
he  had,  without  its  costing  him  very  much 
money. 

Gran  had  her  hopes  and  aspirations  after  a 
marriage  between  Cecilia  and  Bernard  Grace 
which  she  had  kept  to  herself.  She  had  an 
idea  that  her  son  would  not  contemplate  with 
any  equanimity  the  marriage,  however  far 
ahead,  of  his  young  daughter ;  and  there  was  no 
one  else  with  whom  she  could  discuss  the  mat- 
ter. But  she  often  chuckled  to  herself  as  at  a 
pleasant  thought  over  the  possibility  of  a  mar- 
riage between  the  son  of  the  distant  cousin 
Grace  who  had  preceded  her  Maurice  in  lift- 
ing the  name  out  of  the  soil,  and  her  grand- 
daughter, Cecilia. 

Meanwhile,  Cecilia,  sitting  on  the  hay,  her 
eyes  staring  straight  before  her,  was  pictur- 
ing that  scene  at  the  Bawn  Farm.  She  could 
imagine  Mrs.  Patrick  Grace  asserting  herself 
in  the  presence  of  the  lady  whom  she  covertly 
suspected  of  looking  down  on  her.  Cecilia 
knew  Mrs.  Patrick  Grace's  way  when  she  as- 
serted herself,  and  the  knowledge  made  her 
wince.  She  could  hear  her  mother's  light, 
sweet  laugh,  and  see  her  incongruous  face  and 
figure  in  the  low-ceiled  dark  room,  its  table 


NEW  KIN  57 

set  with  plenty  of  good  food  but  little  refine- 
ment. There  was  something  vulgar  about 
Mrs.  Patrick's  voice  and  face  when  she  would 
be  at  ease  which  came  into  Cecilia's  mind 
gratingly.  No  wonder  her  ladyship,  finding 
herself  overborne,  had  taken  her  departure. 

Footsteps  approached  quickly  over  the 
greenly -growing,  velvety  grass.  Cecilia  looked 
up  with  a  start.  A  lady  and  gentleman  were 
standing  before  her.  The  gentleman  was 
lifting  his  hat  and  smiling;  his  eyes  once  again 
sent  electric  thrills  through  Cecilia.  They 
were  gray  and  bright,  and  his  dark  hair  was 
ever  so  lightly  threaded  with  gray,  although 
he  was  obviously  quite  young.  He  was  slender 
and  elegant,  with  a  look  of  race  about  him. 
As  he  stood  there  smiling  he  seemed  to  Cecilia 
a  very  fine  gentleman. 

The  lady  was  quite  young  also,  a  little  per- 
son, and  a  brunette.  She  had  the  lightest, 
daintiest  of  figures.  She  was  smiling  at 
Cecilia  with  a  friendly  smile. 

"I  am  your  cousin,  Betty  Wynne,"  she 
said.  *T  have  only  just  discovered  who  you 
are.  You  are  Cecilia  Grace,  are  you  not? 
But  of  course  you  are.  We  are  enchanted  by 
your  singing.  Allow  me  to  introduce  Lord 
Kilrush." 

Cecilia  stood  up  with  an  air  of  bewilderment 
from  her  seat  on  the  hay.    The  young  lady  was 


68  NEW  KIN 

exquisitely  though  simply  dressed.  Her  em- 
broidered mushn  dress,  her  wide,  white  hat 
wreathed  with  roses,  the  little  pearls  at  her 
ears,  the  dainty  parasol  she  carried,  made 
Cecilia  feel  like  a  village  girl.  So  that  was 
how  people  looked  in  his  world.  Her  eyes  fell 
before  Lord  Kilrush's,  which  had  something 
meriy  and  kind  added  to  that  other  intangi- 
ble thing  that  had  made  Cecilia  hot  and  cold, 
cold  and  hot. 

"Reverend  Mother  has  sent  us  in  search  of 
j^ou,"  went  on  Miss  Betty  Wynne.  "What  a 
wonderful  cousin  you  are !  I  am  tremendously 
proud  of  you.  Their  Majesties  want  to  speak 
to  you — to  thank  you  for  the  pleasure  you 
have  given  them.  How  I  envy  you!  My 
dear  cousin,  the  whole  world  will  be  envying 
you  if  you  go  on  like  this." 

Miss  Wynne  had  a  color  in  her  cheeks  like 
a  peach.  Her  dark  eyes  were  very  bright — 
she  looked  all  life  and  movement,  like  a  very 
bright  little  bird. 

"We  may  take  her,  may  we  not?"  she  said, 
turning  with  a  gracious  and  deferential  air  to 
Gran,  sitting  silent  on  the  heap  of  hay.  "She 
will  come  back  to  you  again  when  their  Majes- 
ties have  spoken  with  her." 

In  her  own  mind  she  had  put  down  Gran 
as  her  cousin's  nurse.  Such  tender  ties  existed 
in  the  country  of  their  birth  between  nurses 


NEW  KIN  59 

and  nurslings  that  it  seemed  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world  to  find  this  homely  old  body 
taking  part  in  her  child's  triumph. 

"Mother  will  be  so  excited,"  Miss  Wynne 
went  on,  "when  I  tell  her  about  you.  I  am 
staying  on  a  visit  with  Lady  Inverary.  I  had 
no  idea  that  you  were  at  school  here;  but,  of 
course,  mother  had  told  me  about  you;  and  if 
she  hadn't,  I  should  have  known  the  moment 
you  appeared  who  you  were  by  your  likeness 
to  Cousin  Ciss  whose  j^icture  is  on  the  wi'iting- 
table  in  mother's  room." 

She  laid  a  hand  gloved  in  soft  pale  kid  on 
Cecilia's  arm.  Cecilia  moved  a  step  or  two 
with  her,  then  came  to  a  standstill. 

"Before  we  go,  Cousin  Betty,  let  me  intro- 
duce you  and  Lord  Kilrush  to  my  father's 
mother." 

It  had  hardly  come  within  Cecilia's  province 
to  effect  introductions,  but  no  one  could  have 
found  a  flaw  in  her  manner  of  doing  it.  Lord 
Kilrush  hfted  his  hat.  INIiss  Betty  held  out 
her  hand  to  take  the  old  hand  that  was  rough- 
ened and  coarsened  with  toil,  the  hand  from 
which  INIrs.  Grace  had  very  willingly  removed 
the  white  cotton  glove  which  the  great  occasion 
demanded. 

Cecilia  was  disappointed  with  Gran,  hurt  by 
her  manner  of  receiving  Cousin  Betty's  ad- 
vances.    Mrs.  Grace  looked  down  at  Betty's 


60  NEW  KIN 

hand  as  though  she  did  not  see  it,  and  made  a 
stiff  httle  curtsy,  with  a  most  unfriendly  ex- 
pression. 

"Come,  Cecilia!"  said  Miss  Wynne,  as 
though  she  had  not  noticed  Gran's  unfriend- 
liness; "you  must  not  keep  their  Majesties 
waiting,  you  know.  That  would  be  an  un- 
pardonable sin." 

She  slipped  a  hand  through  Cecilia's  arm, 
with  a  frank  air  of  girlish  camaraderie,  and 
drew  her  along  with  her. 

"I  shall  be  back  very  soon,  Gran,"  said 
Cecilia,  looking  back  over  her  shoulder. 

"Don't  hurry  for  me!"  Gran  replied,  in  a 
chillier  tone  than  Cecilia  had  ever  heard  from 
her  in  all  her  young  life. 

"I  fear  we've  vexed  your  grandmother,'* 
Betty  Wynne  said,  almost  racing  Cecilia  along 
the  garden  path.  "But  there  was  really  no 
time  to  make  explanations.  I  promised  Rev- 
erend Mother  I  should  find  you.  She  had 
already  sent  out  half  a  dozen  scouts.  I  am  so 
glad  that  it  was  I  who  found  you  after  all." 

Lord  Kilrush  followed  them  at  a  more  leis- 
urely pace.  He  wanted  to  see  how  the  lovely 
school-girl  was  going  to  comport  herself  in  the 
presence  of  royalty.  He  said  to  himself  that 
he  had  never  seen  anything  quite  so  beautiful 
as  Cecilia.     As  he  said  it  he  caught  sight  of 


NEW  KIN  61 

a  lady  crossing  the  grass  who  was  so  startlingly 
like  Cecilia  that  it  could  only  be  her  mother. 

It  was  Ciss — Ciss  with  her  inimitable  air  of 
languid  elegance,  trailing  a  lace  dress  across 
the  grass,  an  exquisite  old  scarf  falling  about 
her  shoulders  as  it  could  only  have  fallen  about 
Ciss's. 

Cecilia  had  not  seen  her  mother,  and  Ciss 
had  no  idea  of  pursuing  Cecilia  and  Betty. 
She  sank  into  a  seat  placed  at  a  convenient 
point  under  the  shade  of  a  tree  and  sat  there 
smiling  faintly,  while  she  made  a  pattern  in 
the  gravel  at  her  feet  with  the  point  of  her 
parasol. 

•  Lord  Kilrush  was  mystified  and  interested. 
Who  could  they  be,  these  cousins  of  the 
Dromores,  of  whom  he  had  never  heard  ?  And 
the  old  peasant  woman  who  had  scowled  in 
Betty's  winsome  face?  How  could  it  be  that 
she  was  grandmother  to  the  exquisite  creature, 
and  so  in  some  sort  connected  with  people  as 
proud  as  the  Dromores? 

Cecilia,  meanwhile,  had  arrived  in  the  long 
drawing-room  where  the  great  personages  were 
holding  an  audience.  Some  one  passed  away 
from  between  her  and  the  presences,  and  she 
saw  clearly  for  the  first  time  the  pleasant-faced 
gentleman  who  looked  like  a  country  squire, 
and  the  august  little  lady  by  his  side  with  her 


62  NEW  KIN 

wonderful  air  of  distinction  and  her  immortal 
youthfulness. 

The  gentleman  spoke  a  few  kind  and  cordial 
words  of  praise  to  Cecilia;  the  lady  smiled  on 
her  with  an  expression  at  once  sad  and  gentle, 
and  Cecilia  felt  her  young  heart  leap  up  with 
a  sudden  passionate  admiration  and  affection. 
She  bowed  over  the  Queen's  hand  to  kiss  it. 
Her  head  swam  with  excitement  and  pleasure. 
She  bent  low  before  their  Majesties  and  the 
audience  was  over. 

"I  wish  they  did  it  half  as  well  at  Court," 
said  Betty  Wynne  in  Kilrush's  ear.  "They 
are  so  gauche  often,  though  they  have  been 
trained  and  rehearsed  over  and  over.  Now, 
isn't  my  cousin  Cecilia  adorable  ?" 

Lord  Kilrush  agreed  that  she  was  adorable, 
looking  into  Miss  Wynne's  eyes  with  an  ex- 
pression which  said  that  there  was  some  one 
else  adorable  as  well  as  Cecilia.  He  and 
Betty  had  met  last  spring  at  the  Viceregal 
Court  and  had  danced  through  the  Castle  sea- 
son together.  Lord  Kilrush  had  learned  his 
dancing  abroad,  and  danced  with  uncommon 
grace,  and  as  for  Betty,  why,  Betty  was  a  born 
dancer.  As  a  child  she  had  danced  through 
life  instead  of  walking.  Now,  often  enough, 
she  found  it  hard  to  accommodate  her  paces 
to  the  soberness  required  by  her  grown-up  con- 
dition. 


NEW  KIN  63 

Cecilia,  turning  away  from  her  audience  in 
a  dazed  state  of  mind,  was  just  in  time  to  catch 
sight  of  the  expression  on  Lord  Kilrush's  face 
as  he  bent  to  speak  to  her  dazzhng  cousin. 
Before  they  could  look  for  her  she  had  slipped 
away  through  the  crowd,  to  rejoin  Gran  on 
her  heap  of  hay. 


CHAPTER  V 

GRAN 

Gran  was  in  a  very  bad  temper.  Her  face 
had  grown  unbecomingly  dark  and  red  under 
the  purple  ribbons.  She  lifted  her  eyes  at  the 
sound  of  Cecilia's  aj^proach  and  there  was  an 
angry  light  in  them. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "so  you've  lost  your  fine 
new  friends  already!  I  was  thinkin'  they 
wouldn't  long  find  any  use  for  you." 

Cecilia  was  feeling  a  bit  forlorn  herself.  She 
had  dropped  from  the  mood  of  exaltation  in 
which  she  had  bowed  before  the  King  and 
Queen.  Perhaps  it  was  true,  and  they  had  not 
any  use  for  her.  Certainly,  Betty  and  Lord 
Kilrush  had  looked  as  though  they  needed  no 
one  but  themselves  when  she  had  left  them. 

"I  slipped  away.  Gran,"  she  said  gently. 
"They  did  not  see  me  go.  Let  us  go  back  to 
the  house.  It  is  really  much  quieter  than  the 
gardens  on  a  day  like  tliis.  Don't  you  want 
to  hear  about  the  King  and  Queen?" 

"Small  good  the  likes  o'  them  will  ever  do 
to  the  likes  o'  you,"  said  Gran,  acridly.  "I'm 
beginnin'  to  think  it  was  all  foolishness,  and 

65 


66  GRAN 

unsettlin'  your  mind.  Sure  the  likes  o'  them'll 
pay  compliments  and  think  no  more  about  it, 
only  turnin'  the  heads  of  foolish  girls." 

"It  won't  turn  my  head,"  said  Cecilia, 
sweetly.  "I  am  so  sorry,  Gran.  I  thought  you 
would  be  so  pleased  and  proud.  Anyhow, 
come  away  to  the  end  of  the  field.  There  is 
such  a  pretty  place  I  want  to  show  you.  We 
call  it  the  Lakes  of  Killarney.  There  is  such 
a  lovely  little  stream  there  with  little  fishes  in 
it.  It  comes  straight  down  from  the  moun- 
tains, and  it  is  so  clear  that  you  can  see  every 
pebble  in  it  and  they  look  like  jewels." 

"What  nonsense  have  you  about  the  Lakes 
of  Killarney?"  grumbled  Gran,  not  to  be  won 
from  her  bad  temper,  but  getting  to  her  feet 
all  the  same. 

She  had  no  great  wish  that  she  and  Cecilia 
should  be  found  in  the  same  place  in  case  the 
fine  folks  came  to  seek  the  girl  out  again.  She 
held  some  acres  of  land  from  Lord  Kilrush, 
although  she  had  never  set  eyes  on  the  gentle- 
man before,  being  accustomed  to  transact  her 
business  with  and  pay  her  rent  to  his  men  of 
business.  She  thought  of  "the  landlord"  as  a 
person  of  another  sphere.  What  could  he 
want  with  Cecilia  only  to  turn  her  head  ?  She 
had  never  liked  her  son's  marriage,  and  it  had 
been  no  comfort  to  her  that  it  linked  him  with 
one  of  the  proudest  families  in  Ireland.     But 


GRAN  07 

she  had  come  to  accept  Ciss  in  time,  even  to 
love  her.  And  she  loved  Ceciha  better.  In 
her  narrow,  ignorant,  loving  old  heart  there 
were  reasons  why  Ceciha  should  be  kept  apart 
from  the  Dromores. 

And  there  was  Ciss  coming  to  them  across 
the  grass,  swinging  her  scarf  over  her  arms 
with  an  air  which  many  women  would  have 
given  a  good  deal  to  emulate.  During  the 
j^ears  she  had  been  3Iaurice  Grace's  wife  she 
had  never  lost  her  strange  air  of  elegance,  the 
air  of  one  of  the  goddesses  j^ainted  by  Reynolds 
or  Romney. 

"I  am  so  sorry  to  be  late,"  she  said.  "The 
day  was  so  delicious  that  I  fell  asleep  and 
missed  the  great  hour.  I  have  been  looking 
about  for  you  everywhere." 

The  old  woman's  gaze  softened  as  it  fell  on 
her. 

"You  ought  to  have  been  there,"  she  said; 
"she  was  frettin'  that  vou  wasn't  there.  She's 
been  hobnobbin'  with  kings  and  queens,"  she 
went  on,  with  a  grim  air  of  pleasantr3\  "Her 
singin'  and  harp-playin'  delighted  them  all. 
There  wasn't  one  of  them  like  our  Cecilia;  I 
will  sav  that  for  her.  But  as  I  was  savin' 
to  her,  'tisn't  what  we  seem  in  the  eyes  of  men 
but  what  we  are  in  the  eyes  of  God  that  mat- 
ters." 

Ciss  seemed  to  wave  awav  her  mother-in- 


68  GRAN 

law's  pious  wisdom.  Ciss  never  seemed  to  have 
serious  thoughts.  Any  grave  utterance  from 
her  lips  would  have  been  as  quaintly  incon- 
gruous as  from  the  lips  of  a  child. 

"What  are  you  down  here  for?"  she  asked, 
with  an  evident  air  of  distaste.  *'I  came  to 
see  the  King  and  Queen.  Let  us  go  back  and 
see  them.  Their  carriage  with  outriders  was 
waiting  for  them  just  now.  I  hope  they  will 
not  be  gone  without  my  seeing  them.  Just 
think!  I  have  never  seen  the  Queen.  Is  she 
as  young-looking  as  they  say?" 

She  had  turned  them  round-about  and  was 
leading  them  back  to  the  enclosed  grounds, 
from  which  came  the  sound  of  voices  and 
laughter.  That  was  a  strange  day  for  the 
convent  garden,  usually  so  quiet  and  given  over 
to  the  school-children  and  the  nuns.  As  they 
crossed  the  garden  they  could  see  under  the 
trees  of  the  lawn  the  scarlet  and  gold  of  the 
King's  escort:  they  could  hear  the  champing 
of  the  horses  and  the  clank  of  accoutrements. 
In  the  garden  there  were  some  very  smart 
ladies,  accompanied  by  men  obviously  of  their 
world,  and  gazing  about  them  with  lively 
curiosity  as  at  something  unseen  before. 
There  were  also  the  parents  and  relatives  of 
the  school-girls,  homelier  folk,  with  less  or  no 
pretension  to  elegance,  and  all  much  interested 
in  the  fine  folk.     And  there  were  groups  of 


GRAN  69 

the  little  plump  girls,  clinging  fondly  to  the 
arms  of  brisk  young  nuns,  who  were  scurrying 
along,  their  veils  lifted  by  the  summer  breeze. 

It  was  indeed  a  very  strange  scene  in  a  con- 
vent garden. 

"Let  us  hurry,"  said  Ciss,  avoiding  a  nun 
who  would  have  intercepted  them.  "I  do 
want  to  see  the  Queen.  Edith  Dromore  told 
me  about  her  when  she  was  presented  at  Court. 
But  that  was  a  long  time  ago.  Ah!  those  are 
the  friends  I  saw  you  with,  Cecilia.  The  girl 
is  like  some  one  I  know." 

They  were  walking  straight  into  the  arms 
of  Miss  Betty  Wynne  and  Lord  Kilrush, 
along  a  straight  path.  They  could  hardly  have 
avoided  them  if  they  would. 

"Why,  we  have  searched  the  whole  place  for 
you!"  the  young  lady  began.  "I  was  quite 
determined  not  to  go  without  seeing  you." 

She  turned  in  a  bewildered  way  from  Cecilia 
to  Ciss. 

"It  is  mother's  cousin  Ciss,"  she  said. 
*'Surely  it  is  mother's  cousin  Ciss.  She  has 
never  forgotten  you ;  and  she  will  be  so  pleased 
to  know  that  we  have  met." 

None  of  the  four  noticed  that  old  Mrs. 
Grace  had  remained  behind.  She  sat  down  on 
a  seat,  and,  untying  her  bonnet-strings,  fanned 
herself  with  her  handkerchief.  The  day  was 
very  hot.     But  it  was  not  altogetlier  the  heat 


70  GRAN 

that  had  upset  Gran.  She  looked  after  the 
group  ill  the  distance,  and  her  face  was  full 
of  anger. 

Ciss  was  as  pleased  as  a  child  with  the  new- 
found cousin.  She  remembered  Betty,  a 
dancing,  brown-haired,  brown-skinned  child, 
as  different  as  possible  from  the  other  children 
of  the  Dromores.  Betty  had  been  something 
vital,  positive,  in  a  nursery  where  the  other 
children  looked  like  pastel  drawings  with  the 
loveliness  of  life  added.  Betty — why,  Betty 
must  be  twenty-five.  She  had  been  four  years 
old  when  Ciss  had  seen  her  last. 

Things  long  forgotten  came  back  to  Ciss 
at  the  sight  of  Betty's  bronze  eyes  and  hair  and 
her  honest,  charming  face.  She  remembered 
the  other  children.  What  was  Dermot  do- 
ing? and  Brian?  It  was  so  hard  to  realize  that 
they  were  grown  up,  older  than  Cecilia.  And 
there  was  Guy  whom  she  had  never  seen. 
And  Sheila?  And  Oona?  What?  Dermot 
a  soldier  and  Brian  in  the  navy?  And  Guy 
at  Eton?  Sheila  engaged  to  be  married;  and 
Oona,  her  father's  right  hand,  a  very  serious 
young  lady  devoted  to  all  manner  of  things 
that  might  ameliorate  the  lot  of  the  people. 
Wonderful !     Wonderful ! 

But  how  did  it  come — Ciss's  beautiful  white 
brow  puckered  itself  into  lines  of  bewilder- 
ment— how  did  it  come  that  it  had  been  so  long 


GRAN  71 

since  she  and  Edith  Dromore  had  met?  Ciss 
had  a  way  of  forgetting*  the  passage  of  time. 
She  had  not  seemed  to  miss  her  cousin's  visits 
when  they  had  ceased.  Now  it  came  to  her 
all  of  a  sudden  that  they  had  ceased,  and  a  long 
time  ago. 

Betty  knew  that  mother  would  be  delighted. 
Cousin  Ciss's  picture  was  always  on  mother's 
writing-table  among  those  she  loved  best. 
She  would  be  delighted  to  know  that  Betty 
had  met  cousin  Ciss  and  that  Cecilia  was  such 
a  marvel.  And  of  course  Cousin  Ciss  and 
Cecilia  must  visit  them  at  the  House  of  Dro- 
more. Betty  could  not  imagine  why  they  had 
not  come  before,  since  Ciss  was  remembered 
with  such  love.  Papa,  too,  had  always  spoken 
tenderly  of  cousin  Ciss. 

Lord  Ivilrush  had  to  leave  them,  since  he 
belonged  to  the  Viceregal  entourage.  He 
went  with  obvious  unwillingness.  Lady  In- 
verary,  espying  them  from  a  distance,  sent  a 
pressing  message  to  Betty.  Betty  had  to  go. 
But — Lady  Inverary  was  the  most  liberal  of 
hostesses  and  always  allowed  Betty  to  do  what 
she  wanted — Betty  was  coming  to  lunch  to- 
morrow with  cousin  Ciss,  and  perhaps,  in  con- 
sideration of  how  she  had  acquitted  herself. 
Reverend  Mother  would  let  them  have  Cecilia 
for  the  day  and  they  would  have  a  lovely  day 
together. 


72  GRAN 

Ciss  and  Cecilia,  standing  side  by  side,  saw 
the  King  and  Queen  and  the  Viceregal  party 
leave.  Ciss  was  as  excited  as  a  cliild.  She  chat- 
tered as  Cecilia  had  not  heard  her  of  the  old 
days  and  the  old  friends  and  wondered  why  it 
was  that  she  had  let  them  drop  away  from  her. 

*'I  am  never  really  at  home,  Cecilia,"  she 
said,  with  a  high  little  laugh,  "among  the  ex- 
cellent Dublin  bourgeoisie  whom  we  should 
look  to  for  society.  I  never  thought  my 
daughter  would  grow  up  among  them.  Your 
father  understands,  and  that  is  why  he  does 
not  insist  on  my  performing  any  social  duties. 
He  is  always  so  considerate.  What  a  charm- 
ing young  man  Lord  Kilrush  is!  I  believe  I 
must  have  known  his  father.  Dear  me,  it 
would  be  pleasant  to  see  the  House  of  Dro- 
more  again  and  all  the  children  and  Edith  and 
Dromore." 

Ciss's  exaltation  was  dashed  by  Gran's 
face  when  they  found  her  a  little  later  sit- 
ting up  rigidly  on  the  garden  seat,  her  hands 
clasped  on  the  crook  of  her  serviceable  um- 
brella. Ciss  could  be  as  easilj^  cast  down  by 
disapproval  as  a  child.  Her  transparent  face 
visibly  fell  at  the  sight  of  the  resentment  in 
Mrs.  Grace's  expression;  and  for  once  Cecilia 
felt  angry  with  Gran. 

"Have  we  kept  you  waiting  too  long?"  Ciss 
faltered. 


GRAN  73 

*' Never  mind  me,  never  mind  me,"  the  old 
woman  said  acridly.  "  'Tisn't  likely  you  could 
remember  me  among  your  fine  friends.  I'm 
only  your  husband's  old  mother.  Why 
wouldn't  you  give  me  the  go-by?" 

Ciss's  lip  trembled,  and  she  drew  her 
flowered  scarf  about  her  with  a  little  gesture 
as  though  she  were  cold. 

*'It  was  my  cousin's  daughter,"  she  said  with 
an  attempt  at  dignity.  "Why  should  I  not 
be  glad  to  see  my  cousin's  daughter — my 
cousin,  for  the  matter  of  that  ?  I  am  so  sorry  I 
have  offended  you." 

"No  offense  to  me,"  said  the  old  woman,  ris- 
ing stiffly.  "If  you  like  to  run  after  them  that 
despised  you  and  cast  you  off  'tis  your  own 
affair.  I'd  like  to  see  my  son's  wife  bavin' 
a  proper  respect  for  herself,  that's  all,  and  not 
be  leading  her  daughter  astray  as  well  as 
makin'  little  of  herself." 

"Maurice  would  never  have  spoken  to  me 
like  that,"  said  Ciss,  piteously.  "He  wouldn't 
like  it  if  he  heard  you.  It  always  troubles 
me  when  people  are  cross.  And  it  is  not  true. 
I  am  sure  no  one  could  have  been  more  pleased 
to  see  me  than  little  Betty.  I  thought  she 
would  be  such  a  nice  friend  for  Cecilia." 

"You're  bringin'  her  up  like  yourself,  to  look 
down  on  them  she  lives  among.  There  are 
Teresa  and  Eileen  Grace;  they  are  her  cousins 


74  GRAN 

too,  and  handsome  nicely-educated  little  girls. 
Better  keep  Cecilia  in  her  own  station." 

"But  her  station  must  be  mine,"  said  Ciss 
again,  in  piteous  protest.  "She  does  not  care 
for  those  Grace  girls.  I  daresay  they  are  very 
well  in  their  way ;  but  Cecilia  does  not  care  for 
them,  nor  for  their  brother,  nor  for  their  father 
and  mother.  How  could  there  be  anytliing  be- 
tween them?  Indeed  I  have  often  wondered 
how  my  husband  and  Patrick  Grace  could  be 
cousins." 

Gran  was  not  mollified  by  the  implied  com- 
pliment to  her  son.  Rather  Ciss's  speech  had 
inflamed  her  wrath. 

"I  knew  you'd  teach  your  child  to  look  down 
on  her  father's  blood,"  she  said.  "Much  good 
your  fine  relations  ever  were  to  you.  If  it 
wasn't  for  my  son     .     .     ." 

"Hush,  Gran;  don't  j^ou  see  you  are  fright- 
ening her?"  Cecilia  interposed.  *'Why  should 
you  be  so  angry  with  us  ?  We  have  done  noth- 
ing, and  you  know  that  papa  cannot  bear 
mamma  to  be  upset.  You  remember  how 
nervous  she  was  the  last  time  you  were  cross 
with  her,  and  how  it  vexed  papa  ?'* 

"Teach  your  grandmother  to  suck  eggs, 
miss,"  said  Mrs.  Grace,  forgetting  her  dignity 
for  once. 

Still,  it  was  very  evident  that  Cecilia's  speech 
had  not  been  without  effect. 


GRAN  75 

She  muttered  something  that  might  have 
been  taken  as  an  apology:  and,  refusing  Ciss's 
entreaties  to  return  with  her  to  the  White 
Cottage,  she  set  off,  walking  down  the  dusty 
country  road,  at  the  end  of  which  she  would 
find  a  tram-car  to  take  her  back  to  the  city. 


CHAPTER  VI 

WIFE   AND    HUSBAND 

Ciss  was  one  to  forget  her  troubles  easily, 
and  she  met  her  husband  with  an  unclouded 
face  when  he  returned  from  town  just  in  time 
for  his  evening  meal.  That  evening  meal  had 
once  been  a  tea-meal,  but  Ciss  had  changed  it 
to  dinner  by  the  simple  method  of  taking  it  for 
granted  it  was  dinner:  the  innovation  at  the 
time  had  given  some  considerable  offense  to 
old  Mrs.  Grace. 

Maurice  Grace  came  home  tired  and  dusty. 
He  was  nearly  always  tired  by  the  end  of  his 
working-day,  especially  at  this  time  of  year, 
when  his  holiday  was  nearly  due.  To-day  a 
case  of  his  had  gone  wrong,  and  it  had  fretted 
and  worried  him  dreadfully.  He  had  never 
learned  a  useful  indifference  to  the  fates  of 
those  whose  lives  and  health  were  in  his  hands. 

His  weary  face  lighted  up  as  he  came  in 
by  the  garden  gate  and  saw  Ciss,  in  her  white 
gown,  waiting  to  receive  him  at  the  green- 
trellised,  rose-wreathed  porch  of  the  low  white 
house.     He  said  to  himself  that  she  was  like 

77 


78  wifp:  and  husband 

a  picture;  and  so  she  was.  Ciss  had  a  way  of 
composing  herself  unconsciously  to  make  pic- 
tures. 

Now  she  came  to  meet  him,  made  a  tender 
pretense  of  taking  his  bag  from  his  hold,  and 
with  a  hand  slipped  in  his,  led  him  to  the  porch 
where  a  table  was  spread  for  tea.  He  sat 
down  with  a  sigh  on  one  of  the  little  green- 
painted  seats,  and  she  took  off  his  hat  and 
ran  her  fingers  through  his  hair.  At  her 
touch  the  tense  tiredness  of  his  aspect  seemed 
to  relax.  His  face  lost  its  weary  and  heavy 
lines,  as  he  drew  her  hand  down  to  his  lips 
and  kissed  it. 

"Well,  my  dearest,"  he  said,  "and  how  did 
the  great  day  go  off?     Was  Cecilia  a  success?" 

"She  was  a  huge  success.  Unfortunately,  I 
was  not  there  to  hear  her  play.  I  found  a 
little  tear  in  my  lace  and  sat  down  to  mend 
it,  and  I  believe  I  must  have  fallen  asleep  over 
it.  The  garden  was  so  drowsy  with  the  sun 
and  the  scent  of  the  flowers;  and  the  smell 
of  the  hay  and  the  big  bush  of  elder  outside 
the  gate  came  in  to  me.  And  the  bees  were 
humming  in  the  mignonette." 

"So  you  fell  asleep  till  Nannie  called  you?" 
said  the  husband  with  an  indulgent  smile.  He 
seemed  to  love  Ciss  the  better  for  her  childish- 
ness. 

"Yes:  Nannie  was  horrified  when  she  found 


WIFE  AND  HUSBAND  79 

me.  She  thought  I  had  gone  hours  before. 
She  just  hurried  me  into  my  frock.  I  dare- 
say I  looked  a  fright." 

"I'm  sure  you  were  the  lovehest  woman 
there." 

"The  Queen  was  there,"  said  Ciss  simply. 
"She  was  dressed  all  in  lavender,  so  cool  and 
fresh,  and  she  Avas  wearing  such  lovely  pearls. 
She  is  even  finer  and  more  stately  than  her 
pictures.  Oh !  and  Cecilia  made  a  succes  a  fou. 
She  sang  and  she  played  the  harp,  and  the 
King  and  Queen  were  visibly  delighted;  and 
they  sent  for  her  afterwards  and  complimented 
her." 

"Cecilia  will  be  spoiled  for  our  humdrum 
ways.  There  are  no  kings  and  queens  here, 
nor  princes  and  princesses." 

"As  for  kings  and  queens,  there  are  j-ou 
and  I.  Cecilia  is  a  loyal  subject.  And  Cecilia 
herself  looked  like  a  princess  to-day." 

"But  where  shall  we  find  the  prince?" 
Maurice  Grace  asked,  playing  up  to  her  little 
jest.  "Cecilia  knows  no  one.  There  is  Ber- 
nard Grace.  They  say  he  will  be  in  Parlia- 
ment.  He  is  a  very  clever  fellow.  But 
hardly  Cecilia's  prince." 

"Certainly  not  Cecilia's  prince,"  said  Ciss, 
with  a  haughtiness  which  was  something 
new  in  JNIaurice  Grace's  knowledge  of  her. 
"Cecilia  would  not  look   at   Bernard   Grace. 


80  WIFE  AND  HUSBAND 

You  are  quite  right.     There  is  no  one  to  be 
a  prince  for  Ceciha." 

He  lifted  her  hand  and  held  it  an  instant 
to  his  forehead,  where  there  was  a  dull  ache. 
He  did  not  share  his  troubles  with  Ciss,  and 
he  had  sometimes  a  vague  envy  of  those  of 
his  colleagues  who  were  happily  married  and 
could  discuss  serious  matters  with  their  wives. 
But  the  touch  of  Ciss's  white  hand  soothed  the 
pain. 

"You  made  a  prince  of  me,  Ciss,"  he  said, 
"and  a  poor  shabby  prince  I  was,  and  am,  for 
the  matter  of  that." 

He  had  often  w^ondered  how  much  Ciss  re- 
membered of  the  past.  In  the  quiet  calm  of 
her  life  with  him  she  had  lost  and  forgotten 
many  of  the  old  illusions.  But  they  had  not 
talked  about  the  past;  not  of  late  years,  since 
Lady  Dromore  had  ceased  to  come.  He  had 
been  reheved  when  Lady  Dromore's  visits  had 
ceased.  They  had  always  been  followed  by 
excitement  on  Ciss's  part.  He  could  tell  when 
she  had  had  a  visit  by  her  light,  wandering 
eye,  her  frequent  laugh,  her  nervous  move- 
ments. During  the  years  since  Lady  Dro- 
more had  let  them  be,  Ciss  had  grown  almost 
normal. 

He  was  struck  suddenly  by  an  excitement 
in  her  manner  which  had  not  been  there  for 
long.     His  heart  sank  a  little.     Were  the  Dro- 


WIFE  AND  HUSBAND  81 

mores  coming  back  after  his  years  of  quiet 
possession  ?  And  if  so,  what  might  it  not  bode 
for  his  faithful  love? 

"What  is  it,  Ciss?"  he  asked,  looking  up  at 
her.  The  years  had  only  enhanced  her  beauty, 
giving  it  a  lovely,  matured  softness.  Every 
flowing  line,  eveiy  curve  w^re  full  of  gracious 
beauty.  She  was  a  goddess  still,  but  a  married 
goddess;  rather  she  walked  like  a  goddess,  but 
her  face  in  its  innocence  and  gentleness  re- 
called the  face  of  the  Madonna. 

"What  is  it,  Ciss?  Are  you  thinking  what 
a  poor,  ugly,  stupid  fellow  you  chose  to  be 
your  prince?" 

She  stooped  and  kissed  him.  She  was  not 
one  for  frequent  caresses,  and  he  always 
had  a  sense  of  some  unexampled,  unexpected 
bounty  when  she  offered  him  a  caress. 

"I  have  been  thinking,"  she  said,  "that  the 
prince  chose  a  rather  damaged  princess." 

He  looked  at  her  in  alarm.  She  was  smil- 
ing her  smile  of  perfect  joyousness,  that  seemed 
to  belong  to  the  youth  of  the  world:  it  was 
almost  soulless,  that  smile  of  Ciss's,  with  its 
absence  of  memories. 

"I  think  I  must  have  been  rather  queer  when 
you  married  me,"  she  went  on.  "I'm  queer 
still,  but  not  so  queer.  There  was  some  one 
else — wasn't  there?  Some  one  who  came  be- 
fore you?" 


82  WIFE  AND  HUSBAND 

"It  is  so  long  ago,  Ciss,"  he  said,  visibly- 
pale. 

"I  have  been  picking  out  things  from  the 
rag-tag-and-bob-tail  of  my  brain,"  she  went  on, 
laughing  as  though  it  could  not  possibly  be  a 
matter  of  great  moment  to  them.  "It  was  like 
a  skein  of  wool  that  has  been  hacked  about 
anyhow;  and  sometimes  a  thread  broke  off 
short  and  I  could  not  follow  it.  And  some- 
times the  thread  was  quite  long  and  there 
seemed  to  be  what  I  wanted  at  the  other  end 
and  at  last  I  could  follow  the  thread  and 
find  it." 

"And  what  did  you  find,  Ciss?"  he  asked, 
in  a  low  voice. 

The  garden  lay  golden  and  tranquil  in  the 
afternoon  sunshine.  He  remembered  once  to 
have  seen  a  house  on  fire  by  daylight  on  just 
such  a  shining  June  daj^  as  this,  birds  sing- 
ing, the  long  shadows  slanting  in  exquisite 
peace  over  the  gold-green  grasses  as  though 
there  were  not  that  devastating  force  working 
its  will  on  the  household  sanctities  of  some 
poor  human  creature. 

"And  what  did  you  find,  Ciss?" 

She  turned  to  him  with  the  most  lovely 
gesture  of  love  and  submission. 

"I  found  that  there  was  that  other  one  at 
the  end  of  the  thread,"  she  said :  "but  I  found 
that  I  loved  j^ou  the  best." 


WIFE  AND  HUSBAND  83 

"The  other  was  more  of  a  proper  prince 
than  I,"  he  said  humbly. 

"I  have  forgotten  him,"  she  answered. 
"You  are  the  one  I  love.  As  I  followed  the 
thread,  it  led  me  through  years  of  your  love 
for  me.  What  love  for  a  poor  cracked  prin- 
cess!" 

She  laughed  again,  her  light,  high  laugh  that 
always  set  her  canary  to  singing. 

"The  tea  will  be  over-drawn,"  she  said,  with 
an  abrupt  change  of  subject.  "You  know  you 
cannot  bear  your  tea  when  it  is  over-drawn. 
It  is  just  like  me  to  forget.  I  have  always 
been  forgetting,  haven't  I,  JNIaurice?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  passionate  praise  in 
his  eyes. 

"I  was  only  afraid,"  he  said,  "that  the  thread 
might  have  been  leading  you  away  from  me 
back  to  your  own  people." 

"I  should  snap  it  off  short  if  it  did.  But 
how  odd  that  you  should  speak  of  that.  Who 
do  you  suppose  was  among  the  fine  folk  who 
came  with  the  King  and  Queen?     Who?" 

His  eyes  asked  the  question. 

"Why,  Betty  Wynne.  Little  Betty.  She 
used  to  dance  like  a  small  angel,  or  a  fairy, 
or  a  daffodil.  Darling  Betty!  What  a  child 
she  was !  She  has  grown  up  as  good  and  as  de- 
lightful!" 

"So  one  of  the  threads  led  to  Betty.     I  re- 


84  WIFE  AND  HUSBAND 

member  Betty  quite  well.  She  had  an  earache 
in  the  old  days  and  I  prescribed  for  her.  She 
was  a  charming  child — more  vivid  than  the 
others  and  with  a  franker  manner.  The  other 
children  were  like  Lady  Dromore.  There 
were  mists  about  them  which  one  had  to  pene- 
trate.    Betty  stood  clear  in  the  sun." 

"How  well  you  put  it,"  Ciss  said,  in  simple 
wonder. 

"I  have  been  growing  during  these  years  in 
which  I  have  loved  you." 

In  his  own  mind  he  was  grateful  that  dur- 
ing the  early  years  the  cloud  had  not  lifted 
from  Ciss's  brain.  Now  that  it  had  begun  to 
lift  he  was  surer  of  his  kingdom.  It  could  not 
be  possible  now  that  any  one  should  come  and 
push  him  out.  All  those  years  he  had  been 
trying  to  become  another  man  against  the  day 
when  Ciss's  cloud  might  lift. 

"Betty  is  coming  to-morrow,"  Ciss  went  on 
joyfully.  "It  is  going  to  be  a  day  of  days. 
We  shall  fetch  Cecilia  from  the  convent: 
Reverend  Mother  has  given  permission. 
Cecilia  will  lunch  with  us,  and  in  the  late  after- 
noon we  will  walk  home  with  her  along  these 
delicious  lanes.  Have  you  noticed  what  a  year 
it  is  for  wild  roses?  There  are  sheets  of  them 
on  every  hedge.  Can't  you  get  away  in  time 
to  take  Cecilia  back?  I  want  you  to  see 
Betty." 


WIFE  AND  HUSBAND  85 

*'I  shall  certainly  try." 

A  little  shadow  fell  over  his  face.  He 
had  remembered  the  case  that  was  going 
badly.  There  was  a  husband  and  young  chil- 
dren. 

"I  shall  certainly  come  if  I  can,  my  dearest. 
But  I  may  be  too  busy.  In  fact  I  may  be 
called  out  to-night.  Poor  Mrs.  Hayes  is  in  a 
bad  way.  I  left  them  word  to  send  for  me 
if  they  thought  there  was  need." 

"I  am  so  sorry,  poor  thing!"  Ciss  shrank 
from  the  contemplation  of  painful  and  unpleas- 
ant things.  "I  hope  she  will  be  better  to- 
morrow." 

She  poured  him  out  another  cup  of  tea. 

"We  shall  soon  have  Cecilia  at  home  with 
us,"  she  said.  "She  is  really  quite  too  old  to  be 
at  the  convent  any  longer.  This  year,  I  sup- 
pose, we  shall  take  her  abroad?" 

"You  will  like  that,  Ciss?" 

"I  don't  know.  She  would  make  a  third. 
We  have  always  been  two." 

"But— Ceciha!" 

"Oh,  of  course;  being  Cecilia  it  makes  a 
difference.  Only  it  will  not  be  such  a  rest  for 
you.  You  will  have  to  show  Cecilia  things. 
We  cannot  just  find  a  spot  drenched  in  sun 
and  beauty  and  lie  out  all  day  in  the  wind  and 
the  sun  as  we  have  been  used  to — because  of 
Cecilia." 


86  WIFE  AND  HUSBAND 

"So  long  as  Cecilia  is  with  us  she  will  be 
satisfied." 

Ciss  narrowed  her  long,  dreamy  eyes. 

"She  might  go  to  the  House  of  Dromore," 
she  said.  "Betty  wants  her.  It  is  time  that 
Cecilia  knew  something  of  her  mother's 
people." 

He  looked  at  her,  startled.  Ciss  was  pick- 
ing up  the  threads  with  a  vengeance. 

"We  have  heard  nothing  of  the  Dromores 
for  a  long  time,"  he  said.  "Such  an  invitation 
ought  to  come  from  Lady  Dromore.  The 
Dromores  had  lived  very  well  without  us  all 
those  years." 

"The  last  time  I  saw  Edith  Dromore,"  Ciss 
said,  with  a  dreamy  air  of  reminiscence,  "it  was 
at  Gran's.  Edith  was  visiting  in  Dublin  and 
she  drove  all  the  way  to  see  me.  Gran  was 
barely  civil.  Mrs.  Patrick  Grace  was  there, 
with  her  elder  girls.  Mrs.  Patrick  asserted 
herself  more  than  ever  because  Edith  was  there, 
and  Minnie  and  Fan  did  nothing  but  whisper 
and  giggle.  Edith  and  I  were  not  left  alone 
for  a  moment.  But  before  Edith  went  Gran 
took  her  away  and  said  something  to  her.  I 
saw  that  Edith  was  disturbed  when  she  came 
back.     She  never  came  since." 

"My  mother  had  no  right  to  meddle,", 
Maurice  Grace  said,  frowning.  "Why  did  you 
not  tell  me  before?" 


WIFE  AND  HUSBAND  87 

"I  suppose  I  must  have  forgotten.  I  believe 
that  Gran  must  have  asked  Edith  not  to  come 
any  more.  She  has  not  forgotten  me,  Maurice. 
Betty  says  that  my  j^icture  is  always  on  her 
mother's  writing-table,  with  Dromore's  and  the 
children's  and  a  few  of  her  dearest  friends. 
She  was  always  so  sw^eet — to  those  who  knew 
her.     If  Edith  writes  you  will  let  Cecilia  go?" 

"If  Lady  Dromore  writes  I  should  not  feel 
justified  in  refusing  to  let  Cecilia  go." 

He  said  to  himself  that  a  good  deal  of  water 
had  flowed  under  the  bridges  since  he  had  mar- 
ried Cecily  Shannon.  By  sheer  hard  work  and 
love  of  his  profession  he  had  climbed  well  up 
on  the  ladder :  he  had  exemplified  the  old  story 
of  the  hare  and  the  tortoise.  Many  a  brilliant 
and  winning  youth  whom  he  had  looked  at  with 
envy  in  the  old  days,  when  even  the  first  rung 
of  the  ladder  had  seemed  far  beyond  him,  had 
dropped  out  of  the  race,  disappeared;  and  he 
would  keep  what  he  had  won :  since  he  had  won 
it  so  hard,  he  w^as  bound  to  keep  it.  His  pretty 
Cecilia!  He  w^as  not  a  man  to  belittle  family 
ties,  but  he  was  not  insensible  to  the  di'fference 
between  Cecilia  and  the  Patrick  Graces.  He 
felt  a  movement  of  opposition  in  him  to  his 
mother's  will  which  had  always  striven  to  hold 
Cecilia  for  the  Graces  and  against  her  mother's 
family.  He  was  a  good  son;  but  his  mother's 
acrid  criticism  of  the  Dromores  had  sometimes 


88  WIFE  AND  HUSBAND 

irked  him,  even  while  he  bore  with  it  because 
she  had  always  been  tender  to  Ciss. 

Ciss  clapped  her  hands  softly  together  like 
a  quiet,  gleeful  child. 

"Then  we  shall  take  our  holiday  together," 
she  said,  "and  Cecilia  will  go  to  the  House  of 
Dromore.  I  am  so  glad  that  Cecilia  will  know 
her  mother's  people." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   PATRICK   GRACES 

There  was  a  struggle  of  wills  between  old 
Mrs.  Grace  and  her  son  when  it  was  made 
known  that  Ceciha  was  to  spend  her  summer 
holidays  with  her  mother's  people. 

"Small  good  that  will  do  her,"  the  old  woman 
said,  "to  be  taken  up  by  people  who  look  down 
on  her  father,  and  will  drop  her  as  soon  as 
they've  got  tired  of  her.  Poor  lamb !  it  would 
be  a  pity  if  the  fine  folk  were  to  win  her  poor 
heart  and  break  it." 

"There  is  no  fear  of  that,"  Maurice  Grace 
answered.  "Cecilia  is  not  a  fool;  and  after  all 
she  belongs  to  them  as  much  as  she  belongs  to 
us.  As  for  looking  down  on  me,  it  would  not 
matter  if  they  did,  so  long  as  I  have  not  de- 
served to  be  looked  down  upon.  But  I  do  not 
think  they  do.  Lady  Dromore,  after  the  first, 
was  my  friend." 

This  came  at  the  end  of  a  long  struggle,  in 
which  the  man  had  said  verj^  little  and  the  old 
woman  had  said  a  good  deal.     Now  she  looked 

89 


90  THE  PATRICK  GRACES 

at  him,  narrowing  her  eyes,  and  said  the  thing 
that  went  home  like  an  arrow. 

"It  might  be  that  they'd  come  after  Ciss 
again,  and  that  you'd  lose  Ciss  and  Cecilia  both. 
Ciss  is  not  as  she  was." 

He  flinched  before  the  words,  but  he  turned 
his  back  as  though  the  matter  were  concluded ; 
and  the  mother  went  away  in  high  dudgeon,  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life  at  variance  with  her 
well-beloved  and  dutiful  son. 

Lady  Dromore  had  written  with  all  the  old 
affectionateness  to  Ciss.  They  were  prepared 
to  welcome  Cecilia  with  open  arms.  She  had 
missed  Ciss  all  these  years.  Not  a  word  as  to 
why  her  intercourse  with  Ciss  had  terminated. 
Only  the  old  tenderness  lived  in  every  line  of 
the  letter. 

Cecilia  and  Ciss,  both  with  a  sensitive  dislike 
of  anything  like  bad  blood,  strove  to  propitiate 
Gran,  and  found  the  old  woman  grimly  un- 
resj^onsive  to  their  advances.  With  the  illogi- 
cality of  her  kind  she  blamed  the  Dromores  for 
the  quarrel  between  her  and  her  son.  Not  Ciss 
and  Cecilia,  who  were  always  her  lambs,  but  the 
proud,  fine  relations  to  whom  she  and  hers  were 
as  dirt  under  their  feet.  She  could  remember 
still,  with  a  grim  amusement  in  the  resentment, 
the  manner  in  which  Lady  Dromore  had  re- 
ceived Mrs.  Patrick  Grace's  advances  on  the 
last  occasion  when  she  and  Lady  Dromore  had 


THE  PATRICK  GRACES  91 

come  face  to  face.     Possibly  she  had  forgotten 
some  other  incidents  of  that  meeting. 

With  an  intention  of  propitiating  Gran,  Ciss 
and  Ceciha  both  accepted  an  invitation  to  have 
tea  with  Mrs.  Patrick  Grace  the  day  after 
Ceciha  came  home  from  the  convent. 

The  Patrick  Graces  house  was  quite  remark- 
ably well-appointed.  A  comfortable  wagon- 
ette, driven  by  Bernard  Grace,  met  them  at  the 
station.  If  the  day  had  been  cold  or  wet  there 
would  have  been  a  brougham,  driven  by  a 
coachman,  who — and  the  same  was  true  of  his 
equipage — was  only  different  from  the  car- 
riages and  coachmen  of  the  gentry  in  being  a 
trifle  smarter.  Indeed,  occasionally  the  car- 
riages of  the  gentry  and  even  of  titled  people 
in  those  parts  were  shameless  old  shandrydans. 
Patrick  Grace  had  got  bargains  both  of  his 
wagonette  and  his  brougham,  and  he  dearly 
loved  a  bargain;  but  if  he  had  not,  he  would 
have  paid  the  price  to  ensure  their  being  good. 
The  house  was  a  good  one,  too.  It  was  said 
that  Patrick  Grace  did  a  little  money-lending 
on  the  sly,  and  often  got  his  bargains  in  lieu  of 
interest.  And  no  one  could  denj^  that  Bernard 
Grace  drove  well.  In  his  own  opinion  and  that 
of  his  immediate  circle  he  did  most  things  well. 

Patrick  Grace  had  not  risen  to  sending  his 
son  to  England  to  acquire  the  accent  as  so 
many  of  his  friends  had  done,  and  that  was 


92  THE  PATRICK  GRACES 

something  for  which  his  son  owed  him  a  grudge. 
For  he  detested  his  rich  brogue,  which  was  as 
much  a  part  of  him  as  his  eyes  and  his  hair. 

The  house  was  a  modern  one,  which  would 
have  been  comfortable-looking  if  it  were  not 
for  the  excrescences  of  bow  windows  and  glass 
porches  and  green-houses  which  were  dotted  all 
over  it.  The  parterres  in  front  were  set  out 
very  gayly,  with  scarlet  geranium  and  blue 
lobelias  clustered  about  standard  rose  trees. 

The  Mimiie  and  Fan  of  long  ago  had  now 
left  the  parental  mansion  as  the  brides,  respec- 
tively, of  a  pushing  young  solicitor  with  a  gen- 
ius for  getting  himself  appointed  to  all  manner 
of  jobs,  and  a  publican  in  a  large  way  of  busi- 
ness in  Dublin,  who  lived  in  one  of  the  squares 
and  entertained  other  publicans  and  their  fam- 
ilies lavishly. 

There  were  two  younger  sisters  home  from 
the  convent  school  which  was  not  Cecilia's. 
Teresa  and  Eileen  were  inoffensive  little 
school-girls  so  far,  in  their  white  muslin  frocks 
and  their  hair  tied  with  blue  ribbon  hanging 
down  their  backs. 

They  claimed  Cousin  Cecilia  effusively  and 
carried  her  off,  and  she  did  not  at  all  object  to 
being  so  claimed  and  carried  off.  Bernard 
had  shown  a  horrible  disposition  to  sit  in 
Cecilia's  pocket,  which  frightened  her  dread- 
fully.    She  was  very  glad  to  escape  to  those  lit- 


THE  PATRICK  GRACES  93 

tie  rooms  upstairs  with  their  innocent  white 
beds  and  white  suites  of  furniture,  where  were 
a  good  many  girhsh  gimcracks,  but  not  a  sign 
of  a  book,  or  a  picture,  unless  the  photographs 
of  Teresa's  and  Eileen's  school- fellows  might 
count  as  pictures. 

The  little  girls  had  a  school  friend  staying 
with  them,  a  large  eyed,  delicate  looking  girl, 
with  pale  silken  hair  tied  in  a  long  plait,  whose 
name  was  Irene  Tollemache.  Teresa  and 
Eileen  apparently  derived  much  satisfaction 
from  this  aristocratic  appellation.  They  con- 
fided to  Cecilia  that  Irene  was  English  and  a 
niece  of  the  Reverend  Mother,  and  that  she 
was  being  trained  to  earn  her  hving  as  a  gov- 
erness. 

Irene  attracted  CeciHa.  There  was  some- 
thing about  her  delicate  little  face,  redeemed 
from  plainness  only  by  the  beautiful  gray  eyes 
under  fine  dark  lashes  and  delicate  brows,  that 
appealed  to  Cecilia.  Here  was  a  sensitive 
thing  like  herself,  oddly  placed  at  this  moment 
among  the  unsensitive  Graces. 

It  pleased  Teresa  and  Eileen  to  display 
Cecilia  to  Irene,  and  to  see  that  Cecilia  liked 
their  friend. 

*'We  guessed  you  two  would  chum  up,"  said 
Teresa,  with  school-girl  slanginess,  "didn't  we, 
Eily?  You're  both  the  same  sort — fond  of 
music  and  books  and  all  that  sort  of  rot.     I'm 


94f  THE  PATRICK  GRACES 

never  going  to  open  a  book  or  a  piano  after  I 
leave  school." 

"Nor  I,"  said  Eileen.  "Mother  de  Pazzi 
nearly  cries  over  me  at  my  music  lessons.  She 
says  I  lacerate  her  ears.  I  know  she  lacerates 
my  knuckles  whacking  them  with  her  pointer. 
I  hear  her  muttering  to  herself  sometimes,  in 
her  horrid  German  voice,  'Ach,  the  stupid  par- 
ents of  the  stupid  pig  children  that  will  have 
the  music  for  them !  They  had  better  make  the 
butter  or  feed  the  animals  than  to  strum-strum 
the  piano !'  JNIother  would  be  finely  annoyed  if 
she  knew  about  it!  And  father  paying  so 
much  for  our  education,  too!" 

"Mother  de  Pazzi  is  very  kind,"  said  Irene, 
in  the  refined  voice  which  was  in  such  striking 
contrast  to  the  flat  accents  of  Teresa  and 
Eileen.  "She  is  very  kind,  though  she  is  so 
impatient  of  teaching  those  who  do  not  love 
music.  You  know  how  good  she  always  was 
to  you  when  you  had  a  bilious  attack,  Eily." 

Downstairs  JNIrs.  Patrick  Grace  was  discuss- 
ing Irene  with  Ciss. 

"She's  an  ugly  little  thing,  with  that  pasty 
face,  and  all  eyes,  isn't  she?"  she  said  compla- 
cently. "Now,  my  girls  have  all  complexions 
and  figures;  I  make  them  have  figures — till 
they're  married,  at  least.  They  can  do  what 
they  like  afterwards.  Teresa  and  Eily  will  be 
finished  next  year.      As  soon  as  ever  they  come 


THE  PATRICK  GRACES  95 

home,  in  they  go  to  eighteen-inch  stays.  They 
hate  it  at  first,  but  I  tell  them  it's  for  their  good. 
You  should  see  how  Fan  has  spread  since  her 
marriage.  And  Minnie  not  far  behind  her.  I 
tell  them  they'll  be  like  feather-beds  tied  in  the 
middle  by  the  time  they're  thirty.  But  as  Fan 
says,  Michael  can't  go  back  on  her  now.  Fan 
lives  in  a  dressing-gown  from  morning  till 
night." 

"She  has  an  interesting  little  face,"  said  Ciss, 
not  thinking  of  Fan. 

"Who?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Patrick  Grace. 
"Not  Fan.  Why,  Fan  has  four  chins  and  is 
making  another." 

"That  child.  Miss  Tollemache." 

"I  think  she's  as  ugly  as  sin,  myself,"  said 
Mrs.  Patrick,  frankly.  "So  does  Bernard.  If 
she  wasn't,  I  wouldn't  have  her  here  at  any 
price.  What  do  I  care  about  Reverend 
Mother?  Bernard's  a  terrible  one  for  making 
love  to  every  girl  he  claps  eyes  on.  He 
couldn't  sit  beside  a  girl  at  the  table  without 
holding  her  hand  under  the  cloth,  or  pressing 
her  foot  with  his.  I  daresay  you'll  see  Cecilia 
give  a  jumji  as  soon  as  ever  tea  begins.  I 
wouldn't  have  any  girl  without  money  staying 
in  the  house  unless  she  was  as  ugly  as  sin;  for 
Bernard  would  be  getting  her  behind  doors  and 
kissing  her  and  turning  her  head." 

Ciss  listened  with  that  air  of  aloofness,  as 


96  THE  PATRICK  GRACES 

though  she  did  not  belong  to  the  place  and 
might  at  any  moment  take  flight,  which  she 
wore  when  with  JNIrs.  Patrick  Grace  and  her 
kind. 

"Miss  Tollemache  looks  very  refined,"  she 
said,  in  her  far-away  voice.  "She  looks  as 
though  she  came  of  a  good  family." 

"The  family's  well  enough.  The  father  is 
a  parson  that  turned  Catholic  and  so  lost  his 
way  of  living.  Why  couldn't  he  stay  as  he 
was — till  he  was  dying  at  least?  I  don't  think 
much  of  any  one  that  can't  do  better  for  their 
family  than  to  have  them  turn  out  in  the  world 
to  be  governesses.  Fan  has  got  an  English 
governess  for  her  children.  The  last  was  a 
German.  She  very  nearly  spoiled  their  ac- 
cents." 

Ciss's  face  at  the  thought  of  Mrs.  Michael 
INIulcahy's  offspring  with  spoiled  accents  was  a 
study.  One  of  the  signs  that  Ciss  had  been 
growing  different  of  late  was  that  an  odd,  de- 
lightful appreciation  of  a  humorous  situation 
had  suddenly  developed  in  her. 

"Fan  would  like  them  to  have  an  English 
accent?"  she  said  politely. 

"Of  course.  This  girl's  London,  so  it's  all 
right.  She  does  all  sorts  of  things  for  Fan. 
Fan's  getting  so  stout  that  she  can  hardly  do 
anything  for  herself.     Like  myself,  she  doesn't 


THE  PATRICK  GRACES  97 

believe  in  paying  people  for  waiting  on  you 
and  then  doing  it  yourself.  This  girl,  Miss 
Colville,  pours  out  tea  for  Fan,  and  plays 
dance-music  till  her  fingers  are  ready  to  drop 
off  her,  and  never  expects  to  be  introduced  to 
any  one.  Now,  Minnie  had  a  governess  who 
actually  said  'Good  morning'  to  Larry  the  first 
time  he  passed  her  on  the  stairs.  And  Larry 
not  a  one  to  put  her  in  her  place,  either.  Poor 
Min  was  awfully  annoyed  about  it." 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  an- 
nouncement of  tea,  followed  bv  the  entrance  of 
Patrick  Grace,  who  had  just  come  in  from  a 
visit  to  a  distant  farm.  Mr.  Grace  had  had 
great  good  fortune  during  his  life,  for  being  a 
man  of  affairs  it  had  happened  to  him  to  be 
entrusted  with  the  management  of  a  good  many 
farms  belonging  to  widows  and  orphans  and 
such  helpless  people  as  could  not  be  trusted  to 
look  after  their  own  affairs.  By  one  or  other 
curious  circumstances,  Patrick  Grace  had  in- 
variably happened  to  find  the  business  or  the 
farms  of  these  helpless  owners  in  his  own  pos- 
session with  the  former  owners  gone  to  Amer- 
ica, or  dead,  or  otherwise  removed  to  a  safe  dis- 
tance. Of  late  vears,  while  ]Mr.  Grace's  bank- 
ing  account  had  waxed  fat,  his  popularity  as  a 
trustee  had  diminished. 

He  looked  with  much  complacency  around 


98  THE  PATRICK  GRACES 

the  room  as  he  entered.  The  furnishing  had 
been  his  own  choice.  There  were  a  good  many 
mirrors,  a  good  many  squab  chairs  and  sofas  of 
plush  and  bhie  satin,  a  good  deal  of  gilding. 
It  pleased  Patrick  Grace's  taste. 

"Have  you  shown  her  the  bilhard-room?"  he 
asked  his  wife,  as  soon  as  he  had  shaken  hands 
with  Ciss.  "Our  latest  improvement,  hey?  I 
little  thought,  Cousin  Cecilia,  when  I  was  a 
ragged  boy,  picking  stones  on  the  land  I  now 
own — it  belonged  to  the  O'Rourkes  then; 
they're  all  beggared  out  of  it  long  ago  and  in 
America — that  I'd  ever  put  J.  P.  to  my  name 
and  own  a  house  that's  not  a  house  but  a  man- 
sion— not  a  house  but  a  mansion." 

The  table  set  for  that  curious  meal  called 
high  tea  groaned  under  all  manner  of  good 
things.  ]Mrs.  Patrick  presided  over  the  tea- 
tray  at  one  end,  and  the  china  and  silver  were 
excellent  of  their  kind.  There  were  cakes  in 
number  and  variety  to  feed  an  army,  sand- 
wiches, bread  and  butter,  and  solid  jonits  as 
well;  roast  beef,  cold  ham,  chicken,  lobster 
salad,  boiled  eggs,  to  say  nothing  of  sardines 
and  potted  meats,  and  even  a  dish  of  grilled 
chops  brought  in  at  the  last  moment.  There 
was  nothing  to  drink  on  the  table  except  tea. 
That  was  a  rule  Bernard  Grace  fretted  against, 
while  he  acknowledged  the  necessity  for  it — 
since   Patrick   Grace   spent  his   life   between 


THE  PATRICK  GRACES  99 

periods  of  tea-drinking  and  wild  bouts  of 
whiskey-drinking  when  nothing  and  nobody 
was  safe  with  him. 

Bernard  came  into  the  room  with  a  smiHng, 
all-conquering  air.  He  was  wearing  riding- 
breeches  and  a  short  coat,  which  he  thought  rep- 
resented adequately  the  country  gentleman's 
costume.  He  had  aspirations  after  being  a 
sort  of  squire. 

He  frowned  when  he  saw  Cecilia  safely  en- 
sconced between  her  mother  and  Miss  Tolle- 
mache. 

"Oh,  come,  come,"  he  said,  "all  you  ladies 
can't  sit  together.  What  do  you  think  of  me? 
I'm  not  going  to  sit  between  my  little  sisters, 
I  assure  you." 

Irene  Tollemache  blushed  and  Teresa  and 
Eileen  giggled.  They  had  a  tremendous  ad- 
miration for  Bernard. 

But  Ciss  and  Cecilia  were  not  to  be  dis- 
lodged, and  there  was  no  special  gain  in  get- 
ting Irene  Tollemache  to  move  since  Ciss 
sat  by  her,  Cecilia  on  Ciss's  other  hand  hav- 
ing entered  into  conversation  with  Patrick 
Grace  hurriedly  and  with  a  fluency  foreign 
to  her. 

"Sit  down,  Barney,  sit  down,"  said  Patrick 
Grace,  locoselv.  "Can't  the  old  men  have 
their  chance?  And  isn't  your  head  turned 
from   having  your   name   in   all   the   papers, 


100  THE  PATRICK  GRACES 

Cecilia  ?  I  remember  when  I  thought  it  a  fine 
thing  myself,  before  I  got  used  to  it." 

Bernard,  with  a  sulky  pleasantry  about  be- 
ing able  to  see  the  ladies  to  better  advantage, 
subsided  into  the  chair  between  Teresa  and 
Eileen,  and  having  pulled  their  hair  hard  by 
way  of  an  affectionate  demonstration,  set  him- 
self to  an  impartial  ogling  of  the  other  side  of 
the  table  which  might  be  intended  for  Cecilia 
or  for  Irene  Tollemache.  It  made  both  girls 
equally  uncomfortable,  though  in  a  different 
way,  which  was  the  very  thing  Bernard  desired 
as  a  tribute  to  his  powers  of  fascination. 

"Maybe  you'll  give  us  a  specimen  of  your 
powers  after  tea,"  said  Patrick  Grace,  mean- 
ing to  be  very  civil  to  Cecilia.  "There's  a 
piano  deserA^es  to  be  played  on.  It's  worth  a 
hundred  pounds — a  hundred  pounds,  mind 
you.  I  got  a  bargain  of  it,  but  that's  neither 
here  nor  there.  And  those  hussies  there," 
playfully  indicating  his  daughters,  "never  give 
us  a  tune  on  it,  though  I  pay  through  the  nose 
to  have  them  taught  the  pianofort-ee.  'Play 
us  a  bit  o'  Wagner,'  I  said  to  Tess  the  other 
night.  He  pronounced  it  Waggoner.  'Ah, 
go  on  out  o'  that,'  said  she.  T  can't  play  Wag- 
goner. Would  5^ou  like  a  bit  from  Floradora?' 
And  I  didn't  get  it,  either."  He  reached  to 
pinch  Teresa's  rosy  ear.  "Neither  Waggoner 
nor  Floradora.     Yet  they  have  had  ad  van- 


THE  PATRICK  GRACES  101 

tages  their  poor  pa  never  dreamed  of  when  he 
was  their  age." 

"Don't  expect  too  much  from  them,"  said 
Mrs.  Patrick,  indulgently.  "It  isn't  as  though 
they  had  to  earn  their  hread." 

Cecilia  glanced  in  a  shoc^^ed  way  towards 
Irene  Tollemache.  She  had  always  a  sensi- 
tive dread  of  hurting  any  one.  Irene  had 
plainly  heard  nothing  of  the  conversation. 
She  was  sitting  quite  flushed  and  happy-look- 
ing, crumbling  her  bread,  occasionally  glanc- 
ing shyly  at  Bernard  and  looking  away  as 
though  his  yellow  eyes  dazzled  her. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  KAILWAY  JOURNEY 

Cecilia  had  managed  to  keep  off  Ber- 
nard's unwelcome  attentions  till  nearly  the  end 
of  the  visit.  She  was  shocked  in  a  chilly,  inno- 
cent way  at  the  discovery  she  had  made  about 
Irene  Tollemache.  That  a  girl  who  was  a  lady 
should  be  fascinated  by  Bernard  Grace! 
Cecilia  supposed  he  had  good  looks — of  a  sort. 
To  her  the  looks  were  repellent.  She  shud- 
dered in  her  childish  way  at  the  thought  of 
Bernard's  brown  and  yellow  eyes,  his  red  lips, 
his  big  moustache  and  white  teeth,  his  full, 
handsome  features.  There  was  no  justifica- 
tion for  Irene,  she  said  to  herself.  What 
though  she  was  only  eighteen!  Then  she 
ought  to  have  been  more  fastidious.  Cecilia 
was  nearly  nineteen;  but  she  had  disliked  Ber- 
nard just  as  much  when  she  had  been  sixteen 
and  fifteen  and  fourteen. 

She  remembered  once  when  he  had  lifted  her 
in  his  arms  to  carry  her  across  a  stream.  She 
was  sixteen  then ;  and  she  had  loathed  Bernard 
because  he  had  put  his  arms  about  her  and 
held  her  closer  than  even  the  occasion  war- 

103 


104  A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY 

ranted.  She  had  struggled  with  him  till  he 
had  put  her  down  panting  at  the  other  side  of 
the  stream.  Then  she  had  run  home  to  Gran, 
sobbing  all  the  way,  and  Gran  had  soothed  her, 
although  above  the  child's  bent  head  her  old 
lips  had  worn  a  queer  smile,  and  she  had 
scolded  Bernard  about  it.  Bernard  had  al- 
ways been  a  trial  to  Cecilia — always,  with  his 
air  of  covert  love-making.  How  on  earth 
could  Irene  feel  differently  from  what  she, 
Cecilia,  did? 

Mrs.  Patrick  had  schemed  to  get  Bernard 
and  Cecilia  alone,  and  had  been  frustrated  by 
her  husband,  to  whom  his  heir-apparent  was 
not  always  persona  grata.  Patrick  Grace  had 
kept  Cecilia  at  the  j^iano  singing  for  him  till  it 
was  nearly  time  for  the  train.  He  was  pleased 
that  Cecilia  was  so  eager  to  please  him, 

"Ha,  ha!  my  fine  fellow!"  he  said  to  his  son, 
mocking  him.  "It  isn't  always  the  young 
cocks  that  are  the  best  crowers." 

Bernard  had  driven  them  to  the  little  country 
station.  He  had  found  some  one  to  hold  his 
horse  and  had  accompanied  them  on  to  the  plat- 
form where  he  had  walked  up  and  down  beside 
them,  whispering  to  Cecilia.  It  was  one  of  the 
things  that  showed  Bernard's  "bad  form"  that 
he  treated  Ciss  as  a  negligible  person.  He 
was  pleased  that  the  railway  porter,  who 
touclied  his  cap  to  him,  and  the  station  master. 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  105 

and  the  few  humble  folk  who  were  seeing  their 
friends  off  by  train,  and  one  or  two  others  of  a 
higher  class,  should  see  him  on  terms  of  ob- 
vious intimacy  with  such  a  beautiful  girl  as 
Cecilia,  and  her  no  less  beautiful  mother,  with 
her  strange  air  of  distinction.  He  wished  now 
that  he  had  not  repulsed  Teresa  and  Eileen, 
when  they  had  wanted  to  drive  to  the  station. 
He  might  have  bribed  them  to  keep  Ciss  oc- 
cupied while  he  talked  to  Cecilia. 

The  little  train  steamed  in.  It  was  a  local 
train  and  contained  few  passengers.  Ciss  and 
Cecilia  had  a  carriage  to  themselves.  Bernard 
Grace  got  in  and  sat  with  them  while  the  train 
was  getting  some  one's  luggage  aboard  in  the 
usual  leisurely  Irish  fashion,  which  allows  time 
for  much  discussion  of  all  manner  of  subjects. 

At  the  last,  when  the  whistle  sounded,  be- 
fore Cecilia  was  aware  of  his  design,  he  liad 
stooped  and  kissed  her  neck,  just  by  the  ear, 
with  a  light  laugh  whicli  had  a  note  of  anger 
in  it.  He  had  sprung  out  on  the  platform  while 
tlie  train  moved  from  it. 

Ciss  had  been  as  indignant  as  Cecilia.  At 
first  two  red  spots  liad  come  into  her  cheeks 
like  flames  blown  by  the  wind.  Bitter  things 
had  been  upon  her  tongue.  She  had  said  them 
with  closed  lips.  Then  her  loyalty  to  her  hus- 
band had  come  uppermost. 

"Never  mind,  Cecilia,"  she  said.     "After  all. 


106  A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY 

he  is  your  father's  kinsman.  I  don't  know 
how  he  can  be,  but  he  is.  Let  us  forget  him 
for  papa's  sake." 

And  now  Thursday  morning  had  come  and 
Ciss  and  Ceciha  were  at  the  Kingsbridge,  with 
Nannie  D'Arcy  in  attendance.  At  the  last 
moment  Maurice  Grace  had  been  prevented 
from  coming  to  see  his  daughter  off ;  but  surely 
it  was  a  simple  enough  matter  to  be  managed 
by  three  women.  They  had  but  to  seize  a 
porter  and  let  him  look  after  them  and  the 
luggage. 

But  the  three  women  were  babes  in  the 
wood.  Even  Nannie's  sound  common-sense 
in  the  matters  of  her  everyday  life  forsook  her 
before  the  bustle  and  noise  of  the  departure 
platform.  There  was  a  large  detachment  of 
troops  going  by  the  train.  They  seemed  to 
fill  the  platform  from  end  to  end;  they  were 
hanging  from  all  the  carriage  windows.  A 
porter  had  seized  Cecilia's  luggage  as  soon  as 
the  cab  had  pulled  up  at  the  Kingsbridge.  He 
had  rushed  off  with  it  shouting  something  or 
other  back  at  them.  Ciss,  hurrying  after  him, 
had  forgotten  to  pay  the  cab.  In  returning  to 
repair  the  omission  the  porter  and  the  luggage 
were  lost  sight  of  altogether. 

A  jostling  crowd  was  about  the  booking- 
ofRce,  hiding  its  whereabouts  from  them. 
They  wandered  on  to  the  platform  and  some 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  107 

one  directed  them  back  to  the  booking-office. 
They  stood  at  the  extreme  edge  of  the  josthng, 
good-natured  crowd.  The  big  station  clock 
pointed  to  eight  minutes  to  the  hour.  The 
train  left  at  the  hour. 

A  voice  spoke  at  Ciss's  elbow,  and  she 
turned  about  quickly.  For  once  she  ^vas  glad 
to  see  Bernard  Grace  and  forbore  to  resent  his 
coming  to  see  Cecilia  off.  What  a  difference 
it  made  when  there  was  a  man!  How  simple 
it  was,  after  all! 

He  put  them  aside  out  of  the  path  of  the 
crowd,  and  the  trolleys  laden  with  luggage, 
which  had  already  run  down  the  bewildered 
women  half  a  dozen  times.  He  got  Cecilia's 
ticket  in  a  few  seconds.  He  shouldered  a  way 
for  them  through  the  crowd.  He  found  a 
carriage  with  a  vacant  corner  seat  for  Cecilia. 
At  the  other  end  of  the  carriage  a  couple  of 
nuns  were  telling  their  beads. 

He  inducted  Cecilia  in  her  corner-seat  and 
put  her  light  luggage  in  the  rack  above  her 
head,  scattering  a  few  articles  in  the  seat  oppo- 
site to  her  so  that  it  might  remain  vacant. 

Then  he  darted  off  to  the  bookstall  to  get  her 
some  papers. 

"He  is  really  very  kind,"  said  Ciss,  with  a 
deprecating  look  at  Cecilia. 

"Y^es  .  .  ."  said  Cecilia,  with  slow  un- 
willingness. 


108  A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY 

She  wished  it  had  been  any  one  but  Bernard 
who  had  been  of  service  to  them.  He  had 
such  an  intolerable  way  of  behaving  as  though 
he  owned  her.  That  familiarity  of  Bernard's, 
detested  since  childhood,  had  become  more  in- 
tolerable of  late. 

The  carriage  door  was  open,  and  she  was 
leaning  forward  to  talk  to  her  mother.  It 
was  a  stormy,  wet  morning,  the  beautiful 
weather  having  broken  up  suddenly.  It  was 
raining  in  torrents  now  on  the  glass  roof  of 
the  station,  darkening  the  platform  below  and 
the  faces  of  the  passers-by.  The  inside  of  the 
carriages  was  in  almost  impenetrable  gloom. 
From  such  a  background  Cecilia's  face,  like  the 
face  of  a  young  angel,  made  many  a  one  turn 
to  look  and  look  again. 

Suddenly  Ciss,  who  had  her  back  to  the 
platform,  was  aware  of  a  startled  light  and 
color  in  Cecilia's  face.  She  turned  about. 
Lord  Kilrush  was  lifting  his  hat  to  Cecilia. 

He  came  forward  eagerly  and  shook  hands 
with  them,  looking  from  mother  to  daughter 
with  an  air  of  frank  pleasure. 

"Are  you  traveling  by  this  train?"  he  asked. 
"How  lucky!     May  I  come  in?" 

"I  am  not  going,"  said  Ciss.  "My  daughter 
is  going  to  stay  with  the  Dromores." 

"So  am  I.     How  fortunate  for  me!     You 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  109 

will  let  me  look  after  JNIiss  Grace,  as  we  are 
both  bound  for  the  same  place?  I  say — the 
train  is  late.  I  should  hardly  have  caught  it 
if  it  had  been  in  time.  Look  here" — to  a  pass- 
ing porter — "why  is  the  train  so  late?" 

"Mails  for  the  south  not  in  yet,  sir.  If 
they  aren't  in  soon,  yez'll  have  to  start  without 
them,  and  w^ait  at  JNIaryboro'  for  a  special  en- 
gine to  ketch  yez  u^^." 

Lord  Kilrush  took  the  seat  opposite 
Cecilia's,  the  seat  which  had  been  so  cunningly 
reserved  by  Bernard  Grace.  Ah,  there  was 
Bernard  coming  back,  with  some  picture 
paj^ers  and  a  couple  of  sixpenny  novels!  He 
leaned  half-way  into  the  carriage. 

"Here  you  are!"  he  said.  ''Tit  Bits,  Lady's 
Pictorial,  Family  Herald,  and  a  couple  of 
Corelli's.  I  hope  you  think  I've  done  well, 
Cecilia." 

He  put  them  on  her  knee,  and  stood  hold- 
ing them  there  with  his  insufferable  air  of 
familiarity.  Cecilia's  eyes  drooped,  and  a 
painful  wave  of  color  flooded  the  pure  oval  of 
her  face. 

"I've  a  great  mind  to  come  with  you  as  far 
as  Kildare,"  said  Bernard,  gloating  over  the 
sudden  red.  "I'd  think  nothing  of  doing  it. 
Only" — his  voice  fell  to  a  whisper — "it 
wouldn't  be  the  same  thing  with  other  people 


110  A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY 

in  the  carriage.  The  train's  crowded.  I  won- 
der if  I  could  find  the  guard?  He  might  get 
us  an  empty  carriage." 

Ceciha  leaned  away  from  him  w4th  such  ob- 
vious shrinking  that  it  aroused  her  fellow- 
traveler  to  interfere.  The  sight  of  Bernard's 
face  so  close  to  Cecilia's  filled  him  with  an  odd 
rage. 

"Excuse  me,  sir,"  he  said  glacially.  "You 
are  interfering  with  this  lady  who  wishes  to 
speak  to  her  daughter." 

It  was  true  that  Bernard  had  pushed  Ciss  to 
one  side  with  scant  courtesy.  He  had  been 
brought  up  to  think  of  Ciss  as  "dotty,"  and 
that  did  not  constitute  a  special  claim  to  his 
courtesy  as  it  might  have  done  with  a  finer 
nature. 

"The  young  lady  is  my  cousin,"  said  Ber- 
nard, turning  a  fierce,  suspicious  glance  on  the 
other  passenger,  in  whom  he  recognized,  and 
the  recognition  fanned  the  flame  of  his  anger, 
some  one  of  another  world  than  his. 

"Nevertheless  you  are  incommoding  JNIrs. 
Grace,"  Kilrush  said  coldly. 

Even  the  quiet  nuns  were  distracted  from 
their  prayers  to  watch  the  little  human  drama 
that  was  being  enacted  at  the  other  end  of  the 
carriage. 

Bernard  snorted,  panted,  and  made  up  his 
mind. 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  111 

"I  am  coming  with  you  all  the  waj^  Cousin 
Cecilia,"  he  said.  "It  is  my  duty  to  protect 
you  from  objectionable  companions." 

The  train  whistled  and  began  to  move. 
Bernard  was  half-in,  half-out  of  the  carriage. 
Suddenly  Cecilia,  terrified  at  the  prospect  of 
his  company,  put  out  her  two  hands  and 
pushed  him  with  all  her  might.  Ivilrush  made 
as  if  he  would  help  her ;  but  there  was  no  need 
for  his  help.  Bernard  staggered  back,  and 
was  caught  in  the  arms  of  a  convenient  porter. 
They  were  free  of  him. 

The  nuns  smiled  at  each  other  in  their  cor- 
ners. They  were  not  Irishwomen  for  noth- 
ing. 

As  for  Kilrush — Kilrush  had  been  furious  at 
first  because  Cecilia  had  blushed  for  the 
bounder.  He  knew  something  of  Ciss's  odd 
story.  But  he  had  not  imagined  Cecilia  hav- 
ing such  a  kinsman.  Anyhow,  it  was  pretty 
certain  that  his  attentions  were  forced  upon 
her. 

He  caught  sight  of  the  demure,  merry-eyed 
nun  smiling  at  her  companion,  and  the  smile 
exhilarated  him,  put  him  into  good  humor. 
He  tried  to  distract  Cecilia,  talking  to  her  of 
other  things  easily,  behaving  as  though  the  in- 
cident had  not  occurred.  The  only  sign  he 
showed  was  that  he  brushed  away  the  bundle 
of  papers  and  the  two  Corellis  as  though  he 


112  A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY 

would  not  have  them  touch  Ceciha's  skirt,  as 
though  Bernard  had  contaminated  his  foohsh 
choice.  The  action  made  Ceciha  blush  again, 
consciously. 

At  Kildare,  where  the  train  waited  a  few 
minutes,  he  left  the  carriage  and  came  back 
presently  carrjnng  a  bag,  a  luncheon-basket,  a 
rug  and  some  magazines.  He  had  reclaimed 
them  from  the  first-class  carriage  where  he  had 
left  them,  because  Cecilia  was  traveling  sec- 
ond-class. 

He  put  down  the  things,  and,  unfolding  the 
rug,  spread  it  over  her  knees.  It  was  not  un- 
welcome, although  the  day  was  July's.  The 
damp  had  seized  on  everything,  making  the 
atmosphere  cold  and  chilly.  It  might  have 
been  an  October  storm  for  the  wind  that 
howled  about  the  train,  and  drove  leaves  and 
twigs  with  the  rain  against  the  carriage  win- 
dow. 

"Whenever  you  like  we  will  have  lunch,"  he 
said. 

"I  have  some  sandwiches  and  a  bottle  of 
milk,"  said  Cecilia. 

"I  adore  sandwiches  and  milk,"  he  said 
gravely.  "I  have  a  cold  chicken,  some  slices 
of  tongue,  a  salad,  rolls  and  butter,  and  a  bottle 
of  champagne.  Let  us  share  and  share  alike, 
won't  you?" 

"I  am  not  lumgry  j^et,"  Cecilia  confessed. 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  113 

"When  you  are,  let  me  know.  Meanwhile, 
here  are  some  things  for  you  to  read." 

He  swept  Bernard's  bundle  further  away, 
and  held  out  the  items  of  his  own  collection  un- 
der her  eyes — Cornhill,  The  Fortnightly,  The 
Spectator,  Blackwood,  a  couple  of  London 
evening  papers,  and  the  Dublin  morn- 
ing papers.  Opening  his  bag,  he  took  out  a 
couj)le  of  volumes.  One  was  "Rhoda  Flem- 
ing," the  other  a  volume  of  Francis  Thomp- 
son's poems.  He  watched  with  some  curiosity 
to  see  what  she  would  select. 

She  did  not  glance  at  the  newspapers.  Her 
hand  hovered  uncertainly  over  the  two  books, 
then  pounced  on  Francis  Thompson. 

"I  have  read  a  poem  of  his  called  'The 
Hound  of  Heaven,'  "  she  said.  "I  thought  it 
was  wonderful,  and  I  have  always  wanted  to 
read  more." 

His  face  brightened. 

"With  that  choice,"  he  said,  "what  a  world 
you  have  before  you!  You  must  read  Mere- 
dith, too,  one  day." 

Immersed  in  his  papers  to  all  appearance — 
he  was  a  young  man  who  took  a  profound  in- 
terest in  the  history  of  his  own  time — he 
glanced  now  and  again  at  her  face,  over  which 
the  emotions  of  the  poetry  passed  like  sunshine 
and  cloud-shadow  over  a  golden  field.  He  was 
so  glad  she  had  chosen  Francis  Thompson. 


114  A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY 

The  heavenly  face  ought  to  have  a  heavenly 
mind.  And  he  was  oddly  relieved  that  Ciss's 
daughter  should  have  imagination  and  intellect. 

At  Maryboro'  they  were  held  up,  waiting 
for  the  mails.  By  this  time  Cecilia  was  quite 
ready  for  lunch;  but  when  Kilrush  suggested 
it,  she  glanced  shyly  towards  the  nuns,  who 
were  now  engaged  in  reading  each  a  little 
cloth-covered  book. 

He  had  thought  of  that.  They  were  ques- 
ting nuns,  Little  Sisters  of  the  Poor.  He 
spoke  to  a  porter.  In  a  few  minutes  a  basket 
came  with  a  simple  luncheon  of  tea  and  bread- 
and-butter  and  boiled  eggs. 

"The  Sisters  will  permit  me,"  he  said,  with 
his  charming  smile. 

The  nuns  colored,  smiled,  and  murmuring 
their  gratitude,  fell  to  on  the  simple  meal. 

"It  would  be  no  use  offering  them  luxuries," 
he  said  in  a  whisper  as  he  divided  the  chicken, 
giving  the  daintiest  portions  to  Cecilia. 

He  thought  he  had  never  enjoyed  a  meal  so 
much.  The  rain  streamed  against  the  carriage 
windows,  and  the  wind  seemed  as  though  it 
would  lift  the  train  and  shake  it  as  a  terrier 
shakes  a  rat.  The  atmosi^here  was  cold  and 
claimny,  and  the  carriage  comfortless  enough. 
But  Cecilia's  face  was  a  delight;  and  it  was  a 
delight  to  see  in  so  ethereal-looking  a  creature 
the  healthy  school-girl  appetite  that  belied  her 


A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY  115 

appearance.  Cecilia  had  never  tasted  cham- 
pagne, and  it  made  him  laugh  to  see  the  half- 
fearful  way  in  which  she  held  her  glass  to  be 
filled  by  the  foaming,  honey-colored  stream. 

The  nuns,  too,  plainly  enjoyed  their  little 
repast. 

"Monsieur  is  very  kind,"  said  the  blue-eyed 
one,  having  put  away  tidily  the  remains  of  the 
tea-basket  and  brought  it  to  Kilrush's  side. 
"We  shall  pray  for  Monsieur." 

What  matter  though  the  wind  shrieked  and 
the  rain  fell,  and  they  were  held  up  over  an 
hour  at  Maryboro'  station  waiting  for  the 
mails?  Kilrush  laughed  at  the  mishap.  He 
laughed  again  when  a  fallen  tree  straight  across 
the  line  brought  the  train  to  a  standstill.  For 
himself  he  hardly  cared  if  the  journey  were  to 
go  on  for  ever. 

The  nuns  left  them  at  Limerick  Junction, 
and  from  that  time  till  they  reached  Mallow 
their  intimacy  seemed  to  grow  from  minute  to 
minute.  Mallow  came  all  too  soon.  At  Mal- 
low they  had  to  change.  But  there  was  no 
train  awaiting  them.  The  train  which  should 
have  made  the  connection  had  grown  tired  of 
waiting  and  was  gone. 

"The  divil  a  train  there  is  now,"  said  the 
friendly  porter,  "till  ten  o'clock  to-night.  If 
I  was  your  Honor  I'd  be  goin'  up  to  the  hotel 
an'  orderin'  my  dinner.     If  it  wasn't  too  wet 


116  A  RAILWAY  JOURNEY 

5^ez  might  be  takin'  a  stroll  about  the  place. 
Listen  to  the  wind  bellowin'.  You'd  think  it 
'ud  lift  the  station,  so  ye  would.  They'll  be 
goin'  mad  about  their  letthers  in  Cork,  so  they 
will." 

Kilrush  concealed  the  consternation  he  felt. 

"How  fortunate,"  he  said,  "that  I  happened 
to  be  in  charge  of  you,  ^liss  Grace." 

And  Cecilia,  knowing  no  cause  for  conster- 
nation, felt  devoutly  thankful  to  be  in  his  care 
and  protection. 


CHAPTER  IX 

CECILY^S    DAUGHTER 

They  were  just  finishing  tea  at  the  Rail- 
way Hotel,  and  congratulating  themselves  that 
the  train  had  stopped  and  the  skies  were  break- 
ing up  magnificently,  when  the  same  friendly 
porter  called  to  them  unceremoniously  through 
the  open  window. 

"Yez  are  in  the  greatest  o'  luck,"  he  said, 
"for  an  excursion's  just  come  in  from  Cork — 
'tis  the  first  we  heard  of  it — and  it'll  carry  yez 
on  to  Killarney.  I've  tould  the  guard  yez  are 
comin',  so  j^ez  needn't  be  in  a  hurry." 

"There's  no  accounting  for  the  ways  of  Irish 
railways,  even  main-line  railways,"  Kilrush 
said  laughing,  as  the  man  departed. 

Sure  enough  when  they  reached  the  platform 
after  a  run  which  seemed  to  make  a  new  step 
forward  in  their  intimacy,  a  long  traui  was 
puffing  and  panting  by  the  platform,  and  the 
friendly  porter  was  holding  a  carriage-door 
open. 

"There's  no  time  to  telegi-aph  to  Lady  Dro- 
more  again,"  Kilrush  said  as  he  handed  her 
into  her  carriage.     "I  suppose  we  shall  be  able 

117 


118  CECILY'S  DAUGHTER 

to  get  something  at  Killarney.  The  House  of 
Dromore  is  ten  miles  from  Killarney.  We 
shall  be  late  for  dinner,  but  it  will  be  better 
than  arriving  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morn- 
ing as  we  must  have  done  by  the  later  train; 
and  we  shall  arrive  in  time  to  prevent  the  car- 
riage being  sent." 

There  was  a  deep  relief  in  his  voice,  for  the 
reason  of  which  Cecilia  had  no  comprehension. 

They  had  only  two  fellow-passengers,  a 
couple  verging  towards  middle-life,  plainly 
husband  and  wife,  and  much  attached  to  each 
other.  The  lady  was  lying  down  on  one  of  the 
seats  when  they  got  into  the  carriage ;  but  after 
a  time  as  they  were  passing  through  glorious 
mountain  scenery  her  husband  helped  her  to 
sit  up  so  that  she  might  look  from  the  windows, 
propping  her  about  comfortably  with  rugs  and 
pillows. 

Kilrush  and  Cecilia  sat  opposite  to  each  other 
and  gazed  out  at  the  purple  mountains,  dark- 
purple  like  a  pansy  against  a  sky  of  shining  and 
scattered  rose-leaves.  It  was  a  magnificent 
evening.  Far  off  the  lakes  and  inlets  of  Kerry 
burned  rosy  in  the  rosy  sunset.  The  whole 
world  seemed  purple  and  rose.  All  the  bog 
water  reflected  the  miraculous  sky,  a  curlew  as 
he  sped  above  the  bog  caught  the  rose-light  on 
his  head  and  wings. 


CECILY'S  DAUGHTER  119 

The  colors  of  the  sunset  were  in  Cecilia's 
eyes,  making  them  burn  as  though  with  a  som- 
ber and  tragic  passion.  Kilrush  sat  in  the 
shadow  with  his  back  to  the  engine  watching 
her  with  delight.  Her  ingenuous  face  showed 
every  emotion  she  was  feeling.  It  kept  light- 
ing brighter  and  ever  brighter  like  the  West. 
Once  her  eyes  widened  and  darkened.  Her 
lips  parted. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  and  moved  to  her 
side  to  see  the  better. 

It  was  a  sudden  rainbow  making  a  magnif- 
icent lunette,  the  arch  of  it  high  in  heaven,  the 
foundations  disappearing,  the  one  into  a 
sheet  of  bog-water,  the  other  into  the  heather 
of  the  hillside.  Where  the  radiance  ended  it 
hung  shimmering  and  broken,  like  wonder- 
ful gossamer,  for  some  way  down  the  hillside. 

The  sun  came  out  suddenly  and  turned  all 
the  far-away  inland  seas  to  golden  water. 
The  rain-drops  hung  on  the  leaves  of  the  trees 
like  a  fine  fringe  of  gold. 

Kilrush  resumed  his  seat  where  he  could  the 
better  watch  Cecilia's  face.  She  was  wrapped 
in  the  sj^ectacle  of  beauty  through  which  they 
were  passing;  so  wrapped  and  lost  that  she  had 
forgotten  him. 

He  watched  her  out  of  his  dark  corner,  and 
his  face  was  an  unconscious  betrayal.     The 


120  CECILY'S  DAUGHTER 

married  lovers  at  the  other  end  of  the  carriage 
looked  at  him,  and  then  smiled  into  each  other's 
eyes. 

And  now  they  were  in  the  shadow  of  moun- 
tains dark  as  the  Little  Black  Rose  herself, 
and  the  distant  glories  were  hidden  from  them. 
And  presently  the  train,  which  had  been  grate- 
fully slow  in  traveling,  creaked  and  groaned 
its  way  into  Killarney  Railway  Station. 

The  train  disgorged  a  great  number  of  ex- 
cursionists, many  of  them  Americans  bent  on 
doing  Killarney,  and  leaving  it  behind  them 
by  lunch-time  next  day.  They  were  clamber- 
ing on  the  long  line  of  outside  cars  and  into  the 
hotel  'buses.  But  Kilrush,  before  the  train 
stopped,  had  selected  his  man  and  his  horse, 
and  had  taken  possession  of  the  car  before  a 
second  man  could  bear  down  upon  it. 

Cecilia  never  forgot  the  exhilaration  of  that 
drive.  The  little  horse  went  like  the  wind,  and 
the  crazy  car  rocked  from  side  to  side;  but 
Cecilia  knew  too  much  of  the  ways  of  outside 
cars  to  be  easily  dislodged,  and  she  enjoyed  the 
rapid  motion,  the  soft  air,  the  beautiful  scenery, 
the  back  view  of  the  ragged  driver,  and  last, 
but  not  least,  Kilrush's  voice  so  near  her  ear  as 
he  leaned  across  the  car  that  his  breath  was  on 
her  cheek.  It  seemed  years  since  the  morning, 
so  intimate  had  they  become.  Kilrush  jested, 
and  was  encouraged  by  Ceciha's  laughter,  and 


CECILY'S  DAUGHTER  121 

the  quick,  happy  understanding  of  her  face. 
She  had  a  sense  of  humor,  most  happily. 
There  was  something  incongruous  about  it 
when  her  cheek  dimpled  as  though  a  serious 
young  angel  jested.  It  was  like  the  sudden, 
fresh  gaiety  of  a  delightful  child. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  they  pulled  up  at 
the  lodge  gates  of  the  House  of  Dromore, 
through  which  the  lumbering  old  carriage  was 
just  coming  on  its  way  to  meet  them.  They 
were  unexpected,  of  course,  and  the  family 
was  still  at  the  dinner-table.  The  old  butler, 
who  looked  curiously  at  Cecilia,  because  he  had 
not  forgotten  Ciss,  led  the  way  upstairs  to  the 
drawing-room.  There  was  a  wide  flight  of 
stairs  softly  carpeted;  on  either  side  a  gallery 
running  round  a  central  hall  with  many  doors 
opening  from  it.  Between  the  doors  were 
hung  many  dim  oil-paintings,  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen in  the  dress  of  long  ago,  dim  for  the 
greater  part  except  where  a  high  light  looked 
out  of  the  mellow  darkness. 

Cecilia's  feet  seemed  to  sink  in  the  soft  car- 
pet. The  convent  had  been  beautiful  after  a 
fashion,  but  austere;  no  carpets  or  such  lux- 
uries, but  polished  floors  on  which  the  unwary 
slipped.  One  of  the  dooi-s  stood  open,  and 
there  was  a  glint  of  firelight  on  tooled  and 
gilt  bindings  behind  a  lattice  of  brasswork. 
The  servant  opened  a  door  beyond  and  ush- 


122  CECILY'S  DAUGHTER 

ered  them  into  a  long  drawing-room,  with  a 
fire  of  peat  burning  at  either  end. 

"I  will  let  her  ladyship  know,"  he  said,  leav- 
ing them. 

Cecilia  sat  down  on  a  low  chair  within  a 
great  screen  of  Spanish  leather.  Through  the 
long  windows  which  stood  open  she  could  see 
the  sky  lemon-yellow  above  the  hills,  with  a 
single  star  quivering  upon  its  background. 
She  had  a  feeling  as  though  she  had  known  it 
all  before,  as  though  she  were  Ciss  and  not 
Cecilia,  come  back  to  her  own  people. 

There  seemed  acres  of  distance  between  her 
and  the  fire  at  the  other  end  of  the  room — a 
perfect  continent  of  shabby  carpet  dotted  here 
and  there  with  islets  of  little  tables  and  chairs 
and  sofas.  There  was  a  soft  light  of  shaded 
lamps  in  the  room.  It  was  all  beautiful  and 
dim  and  faded.  Cecilia  guessed  that  every- 
thing would  be  a  bit  shabby  by  daylight.  She 
was  a  little  frightened  of  her  first  meeting  with 
mamma's  people,  her  own  people,  the  inhabit- 
ants of  this  strange,  new,  wonderful  world, 
which  yet  had  a  familiarity  to  her  eyes  as 
though  she  had  known  it  all  in  another  life. 

Kilrush,  watching  her  with  his  back  to  the 
fire,  caught  a  sudden  dimple  in  her  cheek.  She 
was  comparing  it  with  Patrick  Grace's  "man- 
sion," where  all  was  so  brand-new  and  bright 
and  staring.     He  wondered  what  had  caused 


CECILY'S  DAUGHTER  123 

that  dimple;  and  he  looked  down  at  her  as 
though  she  was  very  pleasant  in  his  sigiit. 
Then  the  door  opened  and  Lady  Dromore 
came  in. 

She  uttered  a  little  cry  when  she  saw  Cecilia, 
and  came  to  her  with  a  quick,  graceful  move- 
ment. She  was  one  of  the  women  who  are 
young  and  old,  but  never  middle-aged,  and  she 
had  still  the  slenderness  of  youth,  and  the  air 
of  youth,  although  there  might  be  gray  in  her 
hair  and  a  few  lines  in  her  face.  But  it  would 
be  cruel  to  think  of  her  as  middle-aged. 

"Ciss's  daughter!"  she  said,  holding  Ceciha's 
hands  and  looking  into  her  eyes.  "My  dear 
Ciss's  daughter!" 

There  were  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  kissed 
Cecilia  with  the  utmost  tenderness. 

They  were  standing  in  a  group  on  the  hearth- 
rug, Kilrush  explaining  the  mishap  to  the 
train,  when  Betty  came  running  in,  and  after 
her,  more  shyly  and  sedately,  two  other  girls, 
a  tall  young  man  in  evening  dress,  and  a  boy  in 
an  Eton  suit,  all  eager  to  welcome  Cecilia. 
They  had  all  the  curious  air  of  excessive  refine- 
ment which  belonged  to  their  mother,  all 
charming  and  gracious  and  distinguished,  the 
beautiful,  golden-haired,  dreamy-eyed  children 
grown  up  and  as  beautiful  as  of  old.  As  it 
happened,  they  were  all  at  home  except  Brian, 
who  was  with  his  ship.     Dermot,  the  soldier. 


U-h  CECILY'S  DAUGHTER 

had  a  bronze  hue  over  his  fairness,  and  brave, 
frank,  gray  eyes.  Guy,  the  Eton  boy,  had  a 
man-of-the-world  air  as  he  shook  hands  with 
Ceciha  and  then  stood  surveying  her,  that 
made  her  smile  to  herself.  Oona  and  Sheila 
were  both  fair  beauties. 

"All  fair  and  golden  is  my  Queen  in  the 
Castle  of  Dromore,"  runs  the  old  song,  and  the 
tradition  that  the  women  of  the  Dromores  were 
fair  and  gentle  lasted  till  this  day. 

Then,  somewhat  to  Cecilia's  rehef,  Betty 
took  possession  of  her  and  carried  her  off  up- 
stairs to  a  little  room  within  her  own,  very 
pretty  and  pleasant,  with  hangings  of  gay 
colored  chintz  and  a  little  canopied  bed  in  the 
corner,  and  a  sofa  drawn  before  a  cheerful  fire ; 
for,  as  Betty  explained,  it  was  so  damp  in  those 
regions  that  a  fire  was  pleasant  every  night  of 
the  year. 

Some  one  had  brought  up  Cecilia's  luggage 
and  had  left  it  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and 
now  a  maid  knocked  at  the  door  and  asked  if 
she  might  unpack  for  JNIiss  Grace. 

"You  can  come  back  in  half  an  hour,  Dojde," 
Betty  said.  "I  am  going  to  look  after  my 
cousin  myself  for  the  present." 

The  maid  disappeared,  and  came  back  a 
minute  later  with  a  little  tray  on  which  were  a 
teacup,  a  little  teapot,  cream,  sugar,  and  a 
plate  of  thin  bread  and  butter.     She  put  the 


CECILY'S  DAUGHTER  125 

tray  on  a  table  by  Cecilia's  elbow,  and  disap- 
pearing again,  came  back  with  hot  water  and 
an  armful  of  towels. 

"You  have  half  an  hour  to  drink  your  tea 
and  change,"  said  Betty,  "before  your  dinner 
is  ready.  But  if  you  are  late  no  one  will  scold 
you.  I  thought  you  would  like  a  cup  of  tea 
better  than  anything.  If  you  feel  a  bath  would 
refresh  you,  there  is  a  bathroom  next  door,  and 
meantime  I  can  be  getting  out  your  things." 

It  was  the  sweetest  and  M^armest  and  most 
homely  of  welcomes.  Cecilia  had  her  bath, 
and  Betty  undid  the  multiplicity  of  her  cousin's 
tight  school-girl  plaits,  exclaiming  as  she  did 
so  at  the  length  and  thickness  of  Cecilia's  hair, 
and  having  brushed  it,  put  it  on  the  top  of  her 
head  in  a  great  golden  mass,  which  did  justice 
to  the  ripples  and  curls  that  were  hitherto 
screwed  away  so  tightly.  A  whole  maze  of  be- 
wildering prettiness  came  out  about  Cecilia's 
ears  and  temples  and  at  the  nape  of  her  neck, 
taking  away  the  somewhat  prim  and  severe 
look  she  had  worn. 

Betty  selected  Cecilia's  frock,  a  half-loose 
garment  of  the  true  ^Madonna  blue,  with  hang- 
ing sleeves  and  a  fichu  of  white,  and  helped  her 
into  it,  and  put  on  her  shoes  and  clasped  her 
necklace,  all  the  time  caressing  Cecilia  with 
tender  words  and  touches  that  riveted  more  and 
more  strongly  Betty's  chains  on  Cecilia's  heart. 


126  CECILY'S  DAUGHTER 

which  had  an  immense  capacity  for  answering 
love  with  love. 

It  was  a  new  Cecilia  whom  Betty  led  down 
the  broad  stairs  and  into  the  drawing-room. 
Catching  sight  of  herself  in  a  mirror  as  she 
passed  Cecilia  hardly  knew  herself.  Hitherto 
she  had  worn  school-girl  frocks  of  a  naked  sim- 
plicity. She  had  wondered  and  been  de- 
lighted over  the  garments  her  mother  had 
bought  for  this  visit  to  the  Dromores;  but 
they  had  come  on  her  so  suddenly  that  she  had 
been  bewildered  about  them.  She  had  stood 
motionless,  and  turned  about  as  she  was  di- 
rected while  the  dressmakers  fitted  her  for  her 
bodices  and  her  skirts.  The  things  had  all 
been  packed  for  her  by  Ciss  herself,  with  the 
soft  paper  in  their  folds,  and  Cecilia  had  not 
yet  gi-own  used  to  the  variety  and  multiplicity 
of  her  garments.  She  could  hardly  recognize 
herself  in  the  new  Cecilia  all  in  white  and  blue, 
the  aureole  of  her  hair  waved  like  a  young 
angel's. 

Betty  led  the  way  straight  to  the  dining- 
room,  for  the  bell  had  rung  as  they  came  down- 
stairs.    Lord  Kilrush  was  there  before  them. 

"I  am  as  hungry  as  a  hunter,"  he  said,  look- 
ing at  Cecilia  as  though  she  dazzled  him. 

*'Shall  I  stay?"  asked  Betty,  "or  leave  you 
two  hungry  ones  together  to  enjoy  your  meal?" 

"Stay,  Bet,"  Lord  Kilrush  said,  with  an  af- 


CECILY'S  DAUGHTER  127 

fectionate  familiarity;  "but  don't  expect  me 
to  talk." 

He  did  talk,  however.  It  was  a  very  gay 
little  meal,  and  they  sat  over  their  coffee  after 
the  servants  had  left  the  room  until  Betty 
sprang  up  and  reminded  them  that  Cecilia's 
presence  was  much  desired  in  the  drawing- 
room,  from  which  indeed  a  message  was  car- 
ried by  Guy  before  they  could  leave  the  table. 

There  were  some  additions  to  the  family 
group.  Lord  Dromore,  his  high,  aristocratic 
features  grown  more  fleshless,  the  hair  thinner 
on  his  head,  came  forward  to  welcome  Cecilia 
kindly.  There  was  a  young,  lean,  shy-look- 
ing gentleman  who  was  introduced  to  Cecilia 
as  Mr.  L 'Estrange.  His  pale  eyes  rested  in- 
differently on  Cecilia,  and  wandered  on  to 
Sheila  at  the  piano,  to  which  after  a  moment 
or  two  he  betook  himself  with  an  absent-minded 
air. 

Cecilia  sat  down  in  the  center  of  the  fireside 
group.  Oona  stood  by  her  father  with  a  hand 
through  his  arm  in  a  proudly  jDossessive  way. 
Kilrush  had  sat  down  by  Betty.  Lady  Dro- 
more hovered  uneasily  between  one  and  an- 
other, evidently  still  feeling  the  excitement  of 
seeing  Ciss's  daugliter. 

A  tall,  dark  gentleman  came  towards  the 
group.  He  was  very  handsome,  clean  shaven, 
with  dark,  rather  mournful  eves,  and  his  black 


128  CECILY'S  DAUGHTER 

hair  lightly  sprinkled  with  gray.  When  he 
spoke  he  had  a  deep,  pleasant  voice,  and  his  ex- 
pression for  Cecilia  was  very  kind. 

"And  so  this  is  Ciss's  girl,"  he  said,  taking 
Cecilia's  hand  into  his  strong,  firm  grip. 

"Sir  Paul  Chadwick  was  a  great  friend  of 
your  mother's,  Cecilia,"  said  Lady  Dromore. 

For  a  second  or  two  Cecilia  had  a  queer 
sense  of  being  isolated  with  Sir  Paul  Chadwick 
— as  though  they  two  were  alone  and  the  group 
about  the  fire  far  away. 

"Ciss's  daughter!"  he  repeated  as  though  to 
himself. 

Sheila  at  the  piano  broke  into  a  great  crash- 
ing war-march  and  the  momentary  tension  was 
relieved.  Then  the  butler  was  at  the  door  call- 
ing out,  "Mrs.  Chapman,"  and  there  came  into 
the  room  a  very  old  lady,  very  erect,  with  dia- 
monds glittering  in  her  point  lace  and  velvet 
and  in  her  snow-white  hair — a  very  grand  old 
lady  indeed. 

"And  so  this  is  Cecily's  daughter,"  she  said, 
when  she  could  turn  about  from  the  enthusiastic 
welcome  all,  young  and  old,  had  given  her. 
"Oh,  I'm  not  so  old  vet  but  that  I  can  come  out 
after  dinner  to  see  Cecily's  daughter." 

How  was  it,  Cecilia  asked  herself,  that  all 
those  years  the  Dromores  had  held  apart,  when 
to  them  and  their  friends  she  was  so  dear  and 
welcome  as  Cecily's  daughter? 


CHAPTER  X 

GOLDEN    DAYS 

The  young  life  made  the  House  of  Dromore 
a  gay  and  happy  place  that  summer. 

Cecilia  wrote  home  passionate  paeans  on  the 
Dromore  family.  Every  one  made  much  of 
her;  every  one  was  good  to  her;  even  the  old 
servants  and  the  tenants  on  the  estate  had  their 
special  kindness  for  Miss  Cecily's  daughter. 

There  were  picnics,  fishing  expeditions, 
parties  of  one  kind  or  another  got  up  in  her 
honor.  The  young,  warm-hearted,  gracious 
children  of  the  house  took  her  into  their  daily 
life  and  made  her  the  center  of  it.  Betty,  the 
dominant  one,  asserted  her  right  to  Cecilia 
against  her  brothers  and  sisters  and  held  it. 
Dermot  and  little  Guy  were  both  obviously  in 
love  with  Cecilia.  Lord  Kilrush,  too,  seemed 
to  have  a  prior,  special  claim.  Mrs.  Chap- 
man, who  was  Lord  Kilrush's  aunt,  used  to  sit 
and  watch  Ceciha  witli  bright,  meditative  ej^es. 
And  Sir  Paul  Chad  wick  joined  the  young 
people  at  their  gaieties  more  than  of  old. 

The  young  people  found  that  Cecilia's  edu- 
cation was  certainly  deficient.     She  had  not  the 

129 


130  GOLDEN  DAYS 

arts  which  came  to  them  by  nature.  She 
could  neither  ride  nor  drive ;  she  could  not  fish 
nor  shoot;  she  had  never  dreamed  of  golfing, 
nor  did  she  play  hockey,  although  at  the  ad- 
vanced convent-school  a  hocke}^  team  had  been 
one  of  the  innovations  of  Cecilia's  last  year. 
Of  course  her  music  was  a  great  dehght.  The 
young  Wynnes  had  not  devoted  themselves  to 
music.  Cecilia's  dancing  was  a  sight  to  see. 
And  she  was  exquisitely  clever  with  her 
needle. 

"An  indoor  girl,"  Lady  Dromore  described 
Cecilia,  with  an  implied  disparagement  of  her 
own  charming  brood,  of  whom  she  complained 
cheerfully  that  they  only  slej)t  within  doors. 

The  cousins  set  themselves  joyfully  to 
teaching  Cecilia  the  things  she  ought  to  know. 
There  was  a  little  cob  in  the  stable  of  the  most 
angelic  disposition,  perfectly  safe  for  a  novice. 
Betty  lent  a  skirt,  and  Cecilia  was  put  up  for 
her  first  riding-lesson  by  Dermot.  At  first 
she  felt  only  a  terrified  certainty  that  she  could 
never  stick  on.  After  a  few  days  she  did  not 
quite  give  herself  up  for  lost  when  Charlie 
broke  into  a  mild  trot.  On  the  fourth  day 
Lord  Kilrush,  who  had  been  up  in  Dublin, 
where  he  had  official  duties,  arrived  on  the 
scene  during  a  riding-lesson,  and  to  Dermot's 
intense  indignation  took  the  command  of  af- 
fairs. 


GOLDEN  DAYS  131 

"As  though  I  could  not  be  trusted  to  take 
care  of  you,"  said  the  young  man  indignantly. 
"Why  shouldn't  he  mind  his  own  business  and 
look  after  Betty?  He  is  only  three  years 
older  than  I  am,  after  all;  but  he  will  never 
forget  that  I  fagged  for  him  at  Eton." 

Cecilia  wondered  why  Lord  Kilrush  should 
be  expected  to  look  after  Betty,  who  was  an 
excellent  horsewoman.  He  had  a  better  way 
than  Dermot,  she  acknowledged  to  herself, 
though  not  for  worlds  w^ould  she  have  said  it 
to  Dermot,  and  during  the  three  or  four  days 
he  remained  he  got  his  pupil  on  surprisingly 
well. 

Then  Guy  must  teach  her  the  bicycle.  It 
was  really  surprising  how  Cecilia's  education 
had  been  neglected.  Ciss  had  been  old- 
fashioned  in  her  ideas  about  her  girl.  She 
had  never  taken  kindly  to  the  idea  of  bicy- 
cling. So  Cecilia  had  her  lessons  from  Guy,  in 
whose  confidence  she  w^as  about  everything; 
Guy  lavished  gifts  on  Cecilia.  It  touched  her 
when  he  presented  her  with  the  pick  of  the 
litter  of  Colleen's  puppies.  Colleen  was  a 
beautiful  red  setter,  his  own  special  property 
and  the  apple  of  his  eye.  When  he  spent  his 
pocket-money  on  gifts  of  scent,  of  sweets  and 
music  for  Cecilia,  watching  her  lightest  words 
as  a  guide  to  her  wishes,  Cecilia  could  have 
wept  with  passionate  gratitude. 


132  GOLDEN  DAYS 

One  day  Sir  Paul  Chadwick  gave  them  a 
bachelor  lunch  at  which  Betty  presided,  there 
being  only  the  young  people  present.  It  was 
a  deUghtful  lunch,  specially  planned  for  girls, 
plenty  of  roses  and  fruit  and  sweets,  and  the 
substantial  part  of  the  meal  of  the  most  deli- 
cate, pink  salmon  in  green,  crisp  lettuce,  birds 
in  aspic  jelly,  things  that  tasted  deliciously 
and  made  a  picture  to  look  at. 

Lord  Kilrush  was  still  in  Dublin,  and  the 
host,  after  hovering  for  a  while  between  Betty 
and  Cecilia,  finally  left  Cecilia  to  Dermot, 
making  the  young  man  perfectly  happy  by  so 
doing. 

The  house  was  a  fine  old  house,  full  of 
beautiful  things,  but  with  a  chill  and  dusty 
air,  as  a  house  without  a  mistress  is  apt  to 
be. 

"I  wonder  why  he  never  married!"  Cecilia 
thought  once  or  twice. 

She  wondered  about  it  to  Dermot  as  they 
wandered  along  an  upper  corridor.  Sir  Paul 
had  bidden  them  explore  the  house  from  garret 
to  basement  as  they  would.  From  one  of  the 
bedrooms  came  shrieks  of  joy.  Betty  and  her 
sisters  were  attiring  themselves  in  some  of  the 
ancient  garments  which  had  belonged  to  Sir 
Paul's  grandmother  and  great-grandmother. 
Looking  from  an  upper  window  over  the  lawn 
Cecilia  could  see  Richard  L'Estrange  smok- 


GOLDEN  DAYS  133 

ing  a  cigar  with  his  host,  and  now  and  again 
looking  up  at  the  open  windows.  For  once 
Sheila  had  deserted  him. 

"I  wonder  why  Sir  Paul  never  married," 
said  Cecilia. 

Sir  Paul,  who  had  been  leaning  over  the 
terrace  balustrade,  looked  up  at  them  and 
waved  his  hand. 

"I  hope  he  didn't  hear,"  said  Cecilia. 

"Hardly — at  that  distance,"  Dermot  re- 
turned. "As  for  his  not  marrying,  it  is  a 
beastly  shame  he  shouldn't  have.  The  place 
goes  to  a  cousin  up  in  Dublin,  if  Sir  Paul 
has  no  heirs.  He's  not  a  very  nice  person. 
It  would  be  a  very  sad  day  for  Arlo  when 
Alec  Chadwick  came  in  Sir  Paul's  place." 

"He  might  marry  yet,"  Cecilia  said,  look- 
ing over  the  wonderful  prospect  below  and 
thinking  how  sad  it  was  that  the  place  should 
pass  to  uncongenial  ownership.  "He  might 
marry  yet." 

"He's  rather  old,"  Dermot  objected. 
"Why,  he  can't  be  far  off  fifty.  An  awful 
age,  isn't  it?" 

"He  is  very  handsome,"  said  Cecilia, 
dreamily.  "I^ots  of  girls  would  not  mind  his 
being  nearly  fifty.  He  doesn't  seem  at  all  old 
somehow." 

The  girls  emerged  from  the  bedrooms 
dressed  in  (juaint  finery,  in  wliich  they  looked 


134  GOLDEN  DAYS 

enchanting.  Guy  had  discovered  a  beaver  hat, 
tail-coat,  and  nankeen  breeches  of  the  forties, 
and  strutted  about  in  clothes  much  too  big  for 
him,  aping  the  manner  of  Sir  Hercules  Chad- 
wick,  sometime  M.P.  for  Cahirciveen. 

And  Cecilia  forgot  that  she  had  not  learned 
the  reason  why  Sir  Paul  Chadwick  had  never 
married. 

A  little  later  she  was  walking  with  Sir  Paul 
himself  in  the  garden.  Betty  and  Sheila  had 
returned  to  the  delightful  task  of  turning  out 
the  old  wardrobes  and  chests  of  drawers  and 
cupboards.  Dermot  had  joined  the  trans- 
parent Richard  L'Estrange,  whose  comite- 
nance  lightened  in  proportion  as  Sheila  came 
near  him ;  darkened  as  she  retreated. 

"I  heard  you  ask  your  cousin  why  I  had 
never  married,"  Sir  Paul  said,  quietly. 

"Oh!"  cried  Cecilia,  distressed.  "I  did  not 
think  you  could  hear." 

"Just  where  we  were  standing  we  could 
hear  everything.  The  house-wall  seems  to 
catch  and  throw  back  the  sounds.  Also,  I 
heard  you  say  that  I  was  not  too  old  for  love 
and  marriage.  Kind  child!  To  your  age 
usually  my  age  means  hoary  antediluvianism." 

"Oh  no,  no!"  cried  Cecilia. 

His  eyes  kindled  under  the  narrowed  lids. 

"I  am  the  faithful  sort,  Cecilia,"  he  said. 
"I  loved  a  woman  when  I  was  young;  and 


GOLDEN  DAYS  135 

she  married  some  one  else.  I  have  been  faith- 
ful to  her  memory.     That  is  all." 

"She  is  dead?"  asked  Ceciha,  in  a  low  voice. 

"No;  she  is  living." 

"It  was  not  that  she  did  not  love  you?" 

There  was  something  exquisitely  flattering 
to  the  middle-aged  man  in  the  innocent  words. 
If  Ceciha  had  been  the  veriest  flirt,  she  could 
not  have  pleased  more  subtly.  And  it  was 
obvious  that  Cecilia  had  spoken  in  all  simplic- 
ity. One  had  only  to  look  at  her  face  to  know 
that. 

"She  loved  me." 

Cecilia  waited  a  moment.  Was  he  going  to 
tell  her  more?  She  had  a  profound  interest 
in  the  dead  and  gone  romance,  for  she  was 
attracted  by  Paul  Chadwick's  distinguished 
personality.  After  a  second  or  two  he  spoke 
again. 

"She  loved  me,"  he  said,  "yet  she  married 
another  man  joyfully.  It  is  a  mystery,  is  it 
not,  httle  Cecilia?  Never  mind,  dear.  I  was 
very  unhappy  once,  but  I  am  happy  enough 
now.  And  that  kind  child,  Cecilia,  thinks  that 
I  might  still  be  loved  for  myself.  Is  not  that 
something  to  make  me  happy?" 

He  ended  on  a  note  of  tender  gaiety. 

For  a  second  or  two  Cecilia  walked  beside 
him  in  silence.  Then  she  spoke — of  some- 
thing which  had  been  puzzling  her. 


136  GOLDEN  DAYS 

"Sir  Paul,"  she  said,  "you  are  an  old  friend 
of  Lord  and  Lady  Dromore?" 

"Yes,  Cecilia." 

"And  Arlo  has  always  been  yours?" 

"I  was  born  to  its  inheritance;  since  my 
father  died  before  I  was  born." 

He  wondered  what  was  coming. 

"Then  you  must  have  known  mamma?" 

"Yes,  I  knew  her.  I  knew  her  from  the 
time  she  was  sent  home  from  India  a  little 
orphaned  child.  She  was  the  sweetest  thing 
the  world  contained — till  now." 

"Then,  why,  tell  me.  Sir  Paul,  why  does 
every  one  talk  of  mamma  as  though  she  were 
dead?  Every  one  is  so  glad  to  see  mamma's 
daughter,  gentle  and  simple  alike.  Yet  there 
is  never  any  suggestion  that  mamma  might 
come  back.  They  all  love  her  so  much ;  a  few 
hours'  journey  would  bring  her  here;  yet  no 
one  ever  seems  to  think  of  that.  And  Lady 
Dromore,  who  wept  over  me  because  I  was 
so  like  mamma,  has  not  seen  her  for  years. 
Why,  Sir  Paul?" 

He  did  not  answer.  He  did  not  know  how 
to  answer.  Indeed,  he  was  grateful  for  the 
diversion  created  by  the  sudden  appearance  of 
Mrs.  Chapman,  accompanied  by  Lord  Kil- 
rush.  The  old  lady  glanced  at  her  nephew's 
face,  then  at  Cecilia's,  where  agitation  had  left 
its  traces. 


GOLDEN  DAYS  137 

*'I  have  brought  Kilrush,  Paul,"  she  said. 
"I  happened  to  call  at  the  House  of  Dromore 
and  found  every  one  out,  and  poor  Kilrush 
just  arrived  and  very  sure  of  his  welcome. 
Kilrush  has  a  whole  w^eek  of  freedom  before 
him.     Are  we  in  time  for  tea?" 

"You  are  quite  in  time,  my  dear  aunt. 
Those  madcap  children  are  in  the  house  some- 
where, playing  havoc  with  the  wardrobes  of 
my  ancestors.  The  last  time  I  saw  Richard 
L'Estrange  he  was  wearing  a  flowered  w^aist- 
coat  and  a  bottle-green  tail-coat  with  brass 
buttons.  He  does  not  take  his  dressing-up 
cheerfully.  He  looks  as  melancholy  as  a  dog 
when  he  thinks  you  have  made  him  ridiculous. 
But  Sheila  insists." 

"She  will  lead  him  a  fine  dance,"  said  Mrs. 
Chapman,  with  humorous  appreciation  in  her 
pursed-up  lips. 

She  thrust  a  friendly  arm  through  that  of  Sir 
Paul  Chadwick's  and  urged  him  towards  the 
house. 

"Let  us  order  tea,  Paul,"  she  said.  "And 
I  must  really  protest  against  the  profanation 
of  your  ancestors'  wardrobes.  I  have  more 
consideration  for  them  than  you  have." 

Lord  Kilrush  and  Cecilia  followed  more 
slowly.  On  the  terrace  they  paused,  just  at 
the  spot  where  Sir  Paul  Chadwick  and  Mr. 
L'Estrange  had  stood  that  afternoon,  where, 
indeed,   on  the  old,   yellowed,   marble   balus- 


138  GOLDEN  DAYS 

trade,  which  a  Chadwick  of  the  eighteenth 
century  had  brought  from  Italy,  two  httle 
heaps  of  cigar-ash  testified  to  their  recent 
jDresence.  Arlo  was  on  a  hill,  and  from  the 
terrace,  there  was  a  clear  view  away  to  the 
shining  plain  of  the  Atlantic. 

Cecilia  gazed  at  the  glorious  expanse  of  lake 
and  bog-land  and  mountain  for  a  few  seconds 
before  she  spoke. 

"What  a  place  to  live  in!"  she  said,  with 
a  sigh. 

"Yes,  Arlo  is  famous  for  its  beautiful  posi- 
tion. There  is  a  song  about  it,  Arlo  Hill, 
written  by  one  of  the  old  Jacobite  poets. 
You  know  it?" 

"I  have  never  heard  of  it." 

"The  Chadwicks  were  good  to  this  old  chap, 
though  they  were  loyal  to  the  reigning 
dynasty." 

He  whistled  a  bar  X)r  two,  and  then  broke 
into  singing: 

"Oh,  would  that  my  love  and  I 
Were  wandering  quietly 

On  the  high  hill  of  Arlo  of  noble  renown 
With  the  blackbird  singing  clear 

In  the  spring  of  the  year ! 
Oh,  the  blackbird  and  my  love  and  I  alone !" 

He  broke  off,  looking  shyly  at  Cecilia's 
unconscious  face. 

"I've   always   had  a   great   admiration   for 


GOLDEN  DAYS  139 

Chadwick  from  the  time  I  was  a  small  boy 
when  he  used  to  let  me  run  at  his  heels  like 
an  adoring  small  dog.  He  was  my  boyhood's 
hero.  There  were  so  many  things  he  could 
do — and  can  do.  No  one  can  ride  like  him, 
shoot  like  him,  do  all  manner  of  things  like 
him.  He  is  so  intrepid.  You  have  seen  the 
heads  of  big  game  that  he  slew.  They  are  in 
the  hall." 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  them,"  Cecilia  said,  with 
a  little  shudder. 

"Anywhere  you  go  where  there  is  big  moun- 
taineering to  be  done,  or  big-game  shooting, 
or  anything  big  in  the  way  of  outdoor  achieve- 
ment, you  will  find  that  Paul  Chadwick's  name 
is  known.  Some  one  wrote  to  me  the  other 
day  that  they  had  heard  of  him  in  Somali- 
land.  He  shot  his  biggest  lion  there.  And 
Somaliland  that  time  was  less  than  a  name 
to  most  Europeans.  Wonderful  fellow!  he 
did  it  all  before  he  was  thirty." 

He  watched  her  narrowly  all  the  time  he 
was  speaking. 

"He  is  a  splendid  fellow,"  he  went  on.  "A 
splendid  fellow.  Such  a  man  as  he  is  cannot 
grow  old.     You  agree  with  me,  Miss  Grace?" 

"One  certainly  does  not  think  of  him  as  old 
or  even  as  middle-aged,"  Cecilia  agreed. 

When  they  left,  crowding  gaily  into  the 
wagonette.   Sir  Paul  Chadwick  stood  on  the 


140  GOLDEN  DAYS 

gravel-sweep  before  his  house,  bareheaded,  to 
see  the  last  of  his  guests.  The  front  of  the 
house  where  he  stood  was  in  shadow,  and  the 
light  of  the  Eastern  sky  was  cold  upon  his 
face. 

"He  looks  so  lonely,"  whispered  Cecilia  to 
Betty,  who  was  her  neighbor  in  the  wagonette. 

"Yes;  I  wish  he  would  have  come  back  with 
us,"  Betty  said,  lifting  her  hand  to  flutter  her 
handkerchief  for  the  last  time  towards  the 
lonely  figure. 

That  night  Betty  came  into  Cecilia's  room. 
She  had  seemed  a  little  silent,  a  little  aloof 
to  Cecilia's  mind,  ever  since  they  had  left  Arlo. 
Betty's  very  high  spirits  were  succeeded  by  a 
mood  somew^hat  quiet  and  dull.  Cecilia  had 
glanced  at  Betty  now  and  again  a  little  anx- 
iously. She  was  always  the  fondest  of  the 
cousins  to  Cecilia. 

Cecilia  was  abovit  to  get  into  bed.  She  had 
just  risen  from  her  knees,  and  was  standing 
in  her  long  white  niglitgown,  with  her  golden 
hair  floating  about  her  like  a  veil. 

Betty  took  up  the  hair  and  kissed  it  in  quiet 
ecstasy. 

"You  and  I  will  always  be  friends,  sha'n't 
we,  Cecilia?  No  matter  what  happens,  you 
and  I  will  always  be  friends?" 

"To  be  sure,  Betty  darling,"  Cecilia  an- 
swered, clasping  Betty  in  her  arms. 


GOLDEN  DAYS  141 

Betty  kissed  her,  with  a  Httle  hard  kiss,  but 
she  did  not  meet  Ceciha's  eyes  for  once. 
After  that  kiss  she  turned  her  face  away. 

"I  thought  I  should  Hke  to  say  before  I 
slept  that  nothing  could  ever  separate  us, 
Cecilia,"  she  said.  "I  have  never  been  the 
kind  of  girl  to  rush  into  foolish  friendships. 
But  where  I  love  I  love.  And  we  will  alwavs 
love  each  other,  sha'n't  we,  Cecilia  dear?" 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Cecilia,  fervently.  "But 
why  not?  I  am  not  the  kind  to  change,  and 
I  am  sure  you  are  not."  She  was  mystified 
as  to  what  it  was  all  about.  No  one  could 
associate  sentimentality  with  frank,  healthy 
Betty,  and  there  had  been  no  school-girl  non- 
sense in  their  wholesome  alliance. 

A  few  hours  later  she  found  a  clue  to 
Betty's  odd  behavior. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A    WITNESS 

There  was  a  horse-fair  on  at  the  town  of 
Drumree,  and  the  horse-fair  always  brought 
its  own  diversions.  Dermot  had  a  horse  to 
sell,  and  might  perhaps  buy  another,  and  the 
whole  family  were  profoundly  interested  in 
Dermot's  horse-dealing.  Of  course  Dermot 
was  to  start  at  break  of  day;  but  the  others 
could  follow  more  leisurely,  and  celebrate,  at 
the  old-fashioned  hostelry  known  as  the  Dro- 
more  Arms,  Dermot's  sale  of  the  horse  if  a 
sale  had  taken  place;  if  not,  they  could  con- 
sole him  for  his  failure,  and  prophesy  better 
things  at  the  next  fair. 

The  arrival  of  Sanger's  Circus  in  the  town 
coincided  with  the  fair.  The  party  were  to 
visit  the  circus  after  lunch,  and  the  cousins 
were  as  much  excited  over  the  small  event  as 
though  it  were  a  great  one.  No  one  could  say 
of  Lord  and  Lady  Dromore's  children  that 
they  were  blase.  They  had  been  brought  up 
with  a  quite  extraordinary  simplicity. 

Mrs.  Fagan  at  the  Dromore  Arms  had  re- 
served her  drawing-room  for  the  distinguished 

143 


144  A  WITNESS 

guests.  The  dining-room  and  the  commercial- 
room  were  filled  to  overflowing  with  the  fair- 
people.  ]Mrs.  Fagan  had  been  cook  to  Lady 
Dromore,  and  was  devoted  to  the  family.  She 
always  did  her  best  when  the  family  honored 
the  Dromore  Arms. 

She  did  her  best  on  this  occasion,  with  boiled 
chickens  and  bacon,  meringues  and  cream,  and 
a  tart  with  a  cheese-savory  to  follow;  a  simple 
menu,  but  she  knew  what  the  children  liked. 
JNIaster  Guy  had  slipped  away  to  the  dining- 
room,  where  he  fed  on  corned  beef  and  ham 
and  boiled  leg  of  mutton,  and  listened  to  the 
farmers  and  horse-dealers  fighting  their  battles 
over  again,  to  rehearse  it  all  when  he  got  home 
for  the  delight  of  the  household. 

Drumree  is  an  old-fashioned  town,  its  main 
street  a  street  of  high,  toppling  dark  houses 
closed  across  the  end  by  a  clock-tower.  Look- 
ing down  the  main  street  you  might  think 
yourself  to  be  in  a  foreign  town,  and  the  like- 
ness is  increased  by  the  slimy  cobblestones 
sloping  towards  the  street  from  which  the 
water  runs  off  into  the  gutters  that  roar  like 
a  river  after  rain. 

The  main  street  was  picturesque  as  the 
young  people  proceeded  along  it  to  the  field 
where  the  circus  was  pitched.  It  was  full  of 
prancing  horses  led  by  wild-eyed,  wild-headed 
urchins,  with  herds  of  little  mountain  cattle. 


A  WITNESS  145 

and  here  and  there  a  flock  of  sheep.  The 
cracking  of  whips,  the  shouts  of  warning,  the 
cries  of  the  drovers  in  the  Irish  tongue,  filled 
the  air  with  a  babel  of  noises,  increased  bv  the 
bleating  of  sheep  and  the  lowing  of  cattle. 
The  street  craved  wary  walking,  for  all  the 
inhabitants  of  Drumree  seemed  to  be  out  of 
doors  to  swell  the  incursion  from  the  surround- 
ing countrj^  and  yet  there  must  have  been 
some  home-keejiers,  since  the  windows  either 
side  of  the  street  were  thrown  up,  and  women 
were  calling  greetings  and  remarks  over  the 
heads  of  the  crowd  in  the  street  to  their  op- 
posite neighbors. 

Dermot  had  got  five  pounds  more  for  the 
horse  than  his  highest  hopes,  and  he  had 
bought  the  girls  a  fairing  at  the  little  jeweler's 
shop  in  the  market-place,  besides  ordering 
champagne  for  lunch.  They  were  all  in  the 
highest  spirits,  Dermot  leading  the  way  with 
Guy  and  Betty,  Mr.  L'Estrange  following 
with  Sheila  and  Oona;  behind.  Lord  Kilrush 
with  Cecilia. 

Their  way  was  blocked  by  a  little  herd  of 
wild  Kerry  cattle  which  were  being  driven 
along  the  street  to  the  accompaniment  of 
shouting  and  swearing — in  Gaelic,  which  is  an 
incomparable  language  for  swearing — on  the 
part  of  their  drovers.  The  pedestrians  were 
forced  to  retreat  before  the  cattle's  onslaught 


146  A  WITNESS 

into  the  untidy  front  garden  of  a  square  red- 
brick house  which  lay  back  a  little  way  off  the 
main  street.  On  the  gate,  wliich  hung  by  one 
hinge,  was  a  dingy  brass  plate  bearing  the  in- 
scription : 

JAMES  BRADY,  L.R.C.S.I. 

Kilrush  noticed  it  casually,  as  one  notices 
such  things  without  being  aware  of  them. 
The  garden  was  a  dreary  waste  of  old  pots 
and  pans  and  broken  crockery,  through  which 
a  few  hens  were  daintily  picking  their  way 
under  half  a  dozen  twisted  apple  trees.  The 
house  beyond  looked  as  neglected  as  the 
garden;  its  windows  dim  with  years  of  dirt, 
its  ragged  curtains  hanging  awry,  the  hall- 
door  paint  blistered  and  fallen  off  in  flakes. 

"Poor  Brady  doesn't  seem  to  do  better  here 
than  at  Knocklynn,"  he  said,  more  to  him- 
self than  to  Cecilia,  who  had  no  idea  of  what 
he  was  talking  about.  "I  suppose  he  can't 
be  expected  to  do  well  anywhere  with  that 
besetting  sin  of  his." 

The  cattle  passed  by,  and  Kilrush  and 
Cecilia  turned  back  to  the  street  again. 
There  was  an  open  archway  leading  into  a 
yard,  where  the  stones  were  polished  like 
glass  by  the  constant  passage  of  the  rain  over 
them.     Cecilia   was   wearing   a   new   pair   of 


A  WITNESS  1¥! 

shoes  for  the  first  time.  Once  or  twice  she 
had  almost  slipped  on  the  cobblestones  of  the 
street.  Now  suddenly  her  foot  slid,  turned 
under  her,  and  she  fell. 

She  was  up  before  Kilrush  could  help  her; 
but  she  had  to  catch  at  his  arm  and  cling  to 
it.  She  found  she  could  not  stand;  even  to 
hold  the  foot  dangling  as  she  did  gave  her  ex- 
cruciating pain. 

Kilrush  looked  into  her  dim  eyes;  her  face 
to  the  lips  was  pale  with  the  pain  she  was  en- 
during. 

"I  am  all  right,"  she  said,  faintly;  "but  I 
can't  stand.  I'm  afraid  I've  broken  some- 
thing." 

"I  can't  forgive  myself,"  he  groaned.  "I 
ought  to  have  been  quick  enough  to  catch  you. 
Poor  child!  is  it  so  bad?" 

They  were  only  a  few  steps  from  Dr. 
Brady's  gate.  He  lifted  her  with  tender  care- 
fulness and  carried  her  through  the  gaping 
crowd.  A  few  more  steps  brought  them  to 
the  door,  which  stood  slightly  ajar.  He 
kicked  it  open  w^ith  his  foot,  revealing  an  un- 
clean hall  beyond.  He  carried  her  straight  in 
as  though  he  owned  the  house,  pushed  open 
a  door  at  the  side  of  the  hall  with  the  same 
unceremoniousness,  and,  entering  the  room, 
deposited  her  gently  on  a  torn  and  stained  sofa 
covered  with  what  had  once  been  red  damask. 


148  A  WITNESS 

It  was  the  sofa  on  which  her  mother  had  lain 
some  twenty  years  before,  the  sofa  to  which 
Maurice  Grace  had  carried  Ciss  with  some- 
thing of  the  same  emotions  with  which  Kil- 
rush  carried  Ceciha. 

When  he  had  laid  down  his  precious  burden, 
as  though  he  gave  it  up  unwillingly,  he  looked 
about  him.  A  dirty  old  woman  had  followed 
them  into  the  room.  She  had  a  broad,  flat, 
white  face  with  cunning  eyes.  Her  hair  was 
unkempt.  Her  hands  were  a  horror.  Her 
gown  was  torn  in  half  a  dozen  places  and 
gaped  for  want  of  hooks  and  eyes.  JNIary 
Anne  Slattery  had  not  improved  with  the 
years. 

"Has  the  young  lady  met  with  an  accident, 
j^our  lordship?"  she  asked,  showing  her  broken 
and  discolored  teeth  in  what  was  meant  for 
an  ingratiating  smile.  Kilrush  had  never 
laid  eyes  on  her  to  his  knowledge,  but  ap- 
parently she  knew  him. 

"Yes."  He  looked  at  her  with  distaste. 
"I'm  afraid  the  lady  has  sprained  her  ankle. 
Is  Dr.  Brady  at  home?" 

"No,  your  lordship;  he  had  a  case  above  in 
the  mountains.  He  didn't  tell  me  what  time 
to  expect  him  home.  He  might  come  any 
minit',  an'  yet  again  he  mightn't  come  for 
hours.  It's  never  any  use  expectin'  a  doctor 
till  you  see  him." 


A  WITNESS  149 

"H'm!"  Kilrush  was  not  going  to  encour- 
age loquacity.  "Can  you  get  me  a  basin  of 
clean  water? — clean,  mind  you.  And  a  piece 
of  clean  linen,  if  you  can  find  such  a  thing." 

Mary  Anne  S  lattery  gave  him  a  baleful 
look  out  of  her  httle  eyes  as  she  went  on  her 
errand. 

"You  must  bear  with  me  if  I  am  clumsy," 
he  said  to  Cecilia.  "I  shall  have  to  get  your 
shoe  off  before  the  ankle  begins  to  swell.  Bear 
with  me  if  I  hurt  you.  I  shall  be  doing  all 
in  my  powder  to  avoid  it.  You  will  know  I 
shall  hate  to  hurt  you.  I  wish  I  might  have 
it  instead." 

His  lips  were  set  hard  arid  he  was  pale  as 
he  heard  her  groan  while  he  got  the  shoe  off; 
but  it  was  done,  and  she  had  not  fainted. 
Marv  Anne  Slattery  had  returned  by  this  time 
with  a  basin  of  water  and  a  roll  of  linen  more 
or  less  clean.  He  did  not  attempt  to  remove 
the  stocking.  It  was  of  very  thin  stuff',  and 
open  at  the  ankles.  He  put  on  the  cold  water 
compress  over  it  and  bandaged  it  quickly  and 
deftly.  Then,  after  holding  the  little  foot  in 
his  hand  for  a  lingering  second,  he  laid  it  down 
gently. 

"That  is  all  we  can  do  for  the  present," 
he  said.     "I  hope  it  did  not  hurt  very  much." 

"It  hardly  hurt  at  all,"  she  answered,  un- 
truthfully. 


150  A  WITNESS 

"I  wish  I  could  have  borne  the  pain  for  you, 
poor  child.  I  wish  it  had  happened  to  me  in- 
stead.    Is  it  easier  now?" 

Mary  Anne  S lattery  stood  by,  smiling 
covertly  to  herself  at  Quality's  ways.  There 
was  a  deal  of  villainy  in  Mary  Anne's  smile. 

"Now  I  shall  have  to  leave  you,"  he  said. 
"I  must  let  the  others  know  first  what  has 
become  of  us.  Then  I  must  hunt  up  some 
sort  of  a  carriage  to  get  you  home." 

"It  needn't  interfere  with  their  enjoyment." 

"Oh,  no:  as  they  have  arranged  to  return 
by  train,  I  can  look  after  you.  Any  one  else 
in  the  carriage  would  prevent  your  lying  in 
a  comfortable  position." 

Mary  Anne  Slattery  smiled  again,  the 
wicked,  covert  smile. 

He  went  unwillingly.  He  hated  leaving 
her  in  the  dirty,  forlorn  place.  The  after- 
noon sun  had  found  its  way  in  now  between 
the  boughs  of  the  apple  trees,  revealing  more 
clearly  the  dirty  squalor  of  everything.  Poor 
Brady — it  was  no  wonder  he  drank;  any  one 
might  drink,  delivered  over  to  such  a  house- 
keeper. 

"Make  Miss  Grace  as  comfortable  as  you 
can,"  he  said,  as  he  left  the  room,  still  with 
the  lingering  gaze  backward.  "Another  pil- 
low perhaps — for  her  shoulders."  A  thought 
struck  him  of  the  certain  uncleanness  of  the 


A  WITNESS  151 

pillows.  "Never  mind,"  he  added  hastily. 
"She  will  do  well  enough  till  I  come  back." 

The  old  woman's  ears  had  seemed  to  move 
as  he  mentioned  Cecilia's  name.  She  watched 
him  go  down  the  pathway  from  the  house, 
his  straight,  well-knit  figure  dappled  with 
shine  and  shade,  his  proud,  handsome  head  held 
high. 

"That's  a  beautiful  young  gentleman,"  she 
said  in  a  wheedling  voice.  "I  knew  him  when 
he  wasn't  that  high,  though  he  doesn't  remem- 
ber me.  A  fine,  handsome  young  gentleman, 
an'  a  very  proud  way  with  him  to  the  poor. 
The  Kilrushes  was  always  handsome  and 
proud." 

Cecilia  opened  her  eyes.  The  sun  was  full 
on  her  face.  The  last  thing  that  would  have 
occurred  to  Marj^  Anne  Slattery  would  have 
been  to  draw  down  the  ragged  blind  to  shade 
her.  Her  own  face  in  the  shadow,  the  old 
woman  watched  the  girl  cunningly.  Cecilia's 
eyes  had  closed  wearily.  The  sun  on  her  pale 
hair  made  a  dazzle  about  her  head. 

"Glory  be  to  goodness,"  said  Mary  Anne 
Slattery,  "you  remind  me  of  a  lovely  lady 
that's  gone  away  out  of  Knocklynn  many's 
the  year  ago.  Miss  Cecily  Shannon  it  was. 
Lord  Dromore's  own  cousin.  I  used  to  see 
her  in  the  chapel  before  the  doctor  left  Knock- 
lynn an'  moved  to  Drumree.     I  never  wanted 


152  A  WITNESS 

to  leave  Knocklynn:  but  he  said,  'Mary  Anne 
Slattery,  I  take  my  Bible  oath  that  go  with- 
out you  I  won't.  What  sort  of  a  careless 
hussy  would  ye  be  lavin'  me  to  at  all?'  With 
that  I  come.  I'd  done  for  him  so  many  years 
that  I  might  as  well  do  for  him  to  the  end. 
'Tis  a  quare  place  for  a  poor  girl  to  be  in, 
and  so  I  said  to  Father  Tracy,  'Never  mind, 
Mary  Anne  Slattery,'  he  says,  'it's  your  duty 
to  go  with  the  doctor.'     So  I  came." 

Cecilia  passed  over  the  bit  of  autobiography. 
But  she  wanted  to  know  about  mamma.  No 
one  had  told  her  about  mamma  when  she  was 
young. 

"It  must  have  been  my  mother  you  remem- 
ber," she  said,  opening  her  eyes.  "She  is  just 
as  sweet  and  lovely  as  ever.  I  am  so  glad 
you  remember  her." 

"I  think  your  dadda  was  here,  too,  doin'  local 
demon  for  Dr.  Brady.  Och,  they  wor  better 
times  at  Knocklynn.  I  never  can  feel  to  be 
home-like  in  Drumree.  Whiniver  you  see 
your  dadda,  miss,  do  you  ask  him  if  he  remem- 
bers Miss  Slattery,  Dr.  Brady's  housekeeper? 
He  used  to  say  that  it  was  wasted  I  was  on 
Knocklynn,  that  'twas  in  Dublin  I  ought  to 
be." 

"Ohr  Cecilia  forgot  her  sprain  and  the 
torturing  and  throbbing  ankle.  "How  strange 
that  you  should  have  known  papa  and  mamma ! 


A  WITNESS  153 

Then  I  suppose  it  was  at  Knocklynn  they 
met." 

It  occurred  to  her  for  the  first  time  that 
she  had  never  heard  how  and  where  papa  and 
mamma  had  met.  Mamma  had  always  been 
too  much  in  the  clouds,  papa  had  always  been 
too  busy,  to  talk  much  to  their  little  girl. 
Cecilia  was  realizing  her  really  vast  ignorance 
about  them. 

"Ay,  to  be  sure,  it  was  at  Knocklynn  they 
met.  In  Dr.  Brady's  house,  morebetoken.  If 
I  hadn't  been  out  of  it  that  night — they  wor 
wakin'  Biddy  Costello,  the  poor  woman,  in 
the  village,  an'  you  wouldn't  be  expectin'  me 
to  lave  the  hoight  o'  fun  an'  jollity  behind 
to  go  trapesin'  home  in  tlie  terriblest  storm  ye 
ever  seen — if  it  wasn't  that  I  was  out  of  it 
that  night,  maybe  your  dadda  and  mamma 
'ud  never  have  got  married.  Quality's  ter- 
rible particular  in  its  ways — at  laste  Quality 
like  I^ady  Dromore.  I've  heard  tell  o'  Quality 
that  was  worse  nor  any  commonalty." 

Cecilia  began  to  think  the  dirty  old  woman 
rather  mad.  What  on  earth  did  she  mean? 
What  could  her  "bavin'  been  out  of  it  that 
night"  and  the  wake  have  to  do  with  papa  and 
mamma's  marriage? 

"I  seen  them  married,"  went  on  the  old 
woman.  "  'Twas  early  in  the  mornin'  'twas 
done,  but  there  was  a  few  of  us  got  wind  of 


154*  A  WITNESS 

it,  an'  we  slipped  in  as  soon  as  the  clerk  opened 
the  chapel-door.  Father  Tracy  tould  us  we'd 
better  be  at  home  lookin'  after  the  breakfasts. 
He  was  always  a  sharp-spoken  man;  but  I 
never  was  afraid  o'  my  clarg}^  One  or  two 
o'  thim  stole  out,  but  I  held  to  my  sate  an' 
I  saw  them  married.  'Twas  a  quare  marriage, 
so  it  was.  But  your  mamma  looked  beautiful, 
in  spite  of  all  they  wor  sayin'  that  it  oughtn't 
to  be  allowed.  Sure  if  it  wasn't  that  she  was 
like  what  she  was  she  wouldn't  have  married 
him  at  all.  Doesn't  the  world  know  that  there 
was  another  gentleman?" 

"Oh,  please,  don't  say  anything  more !"  cried 
Cecilia. 

What  was  this  flood  of  gossip,  of  surmise 
and  conjecture  that  the  horrible  old  woman 
was  letting  loose  upon  Cecilia's  ears  about 
papa  and  mamma?  Cecilia  had  never  antici- 
pated anything  of  the  kind  when  she  had 
turned  so  eagerly  to  hear  of  papa  and  mamma. 
If  there  was  something  slie  was  not  meant  to 
know,  some  mystery,  something  painful  and 
dreadful,  as  the  horrible  old  woman  seemed  to 
suggest,  it  was  not  for  Cecilia  to  hear  unless 
from  papa — papa  or  mamma.  If  they  had 
chosen  not  to  tell  her,  then  she  would  not  come 
at  their  secrets  through  this  dreadful  old  spy 
and  gossip.     As  Mary  Anne  Slattery  turned 


A  WITNESS  155 

her  head  about  slyly,  Cecilia  saw  revealed  the 
furtive  evil  in  the  old  face. 

"I  am  tired,"  she  said.  "Please  do  not  say 
any  more.  You  need  not  stay.  Lord  Kil- 
rush  will  be  back  very  soon." 

Mary  Anne  Slattery's  eyes  were  more  cun- 
ning than  before. 

"Sure  he  will,"  she  said  with  a  leer.  "He 
wouldn't  be  after  lavin'  you  if  he  could  help 
it.  There's  some  that  wouldn't  like  to  see 
him  so  took  up  wid  ye.  He's  a  great  match, 
I'm  tould,  an'  there  isn't  much  money  at  the 
House  of  Dromore." 

"Go,  please,"  said  Cecilia,  with  sudden  im- 
periousness,  pointing  to  the  door.  "Go!  I 
do  not  wish  to  listen  to  j^ou." 

Mary  Anne  Slattery  scowled  and  moved  a 
step  or  two  towards  the  door. 

"You're  very  hard  on  the  poor,"  she  whined. 
"Sure  I  only  wanted  to  make  the  time  pass 
pleasant."  Then,  with  a  sudden  change  of 
tone:  "Why,  if  here  isn't  the  doctor  himself? 
'Tis  a  young  lady,  sir,  that  got  her  ankle 
twisted  on  the  curb,  bad  luck  to  it." 

Cecilia  looked  up  with  a  fervent  throb  of 
thankfulness  into  Dr.  Brady's  red  face,  from 
which,  despite  the  besottedness  of  years  of 
drinking,  something  kindly  and  gentle  and 
even  wise  looked  out. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    CLOUD    IN    THE    SKY 

Lord  Kilrush  came  back  with  an  old 
shandrydan  of  a  carriage  from  the  Dromore 
Arms.  He  did  not  mention  that  the  delay 
was  caused  by  the  fact  that  "the  bins,  bad  luck 
to  them!  had  took  to  layin'  in  th'ould  shay," 
and  some  of  them  had  to  be  dispossessed. 
After  which  the  shay  had  to  be  mopped  out 
so  as  to  banish  as  much  as  possible  the  recol- 
lection of  the  hens. 

It  was  still  reminiscent  of  them,  but  it  was 
filled  in  with  soft  down  pillows  and  fine  woolly 
blankets;  and  once  they  were  out  in  the  coun- 
try the  old  carriage  could  be  opened. 

Dr.  Brady  examined  the  ankle,  and  pro- 
nounced that  Lord  Kilrush  had  done  as  much 
as  he  could  possibly  have  done.  He  helped 
to  get  Cecilia  into  her  conveyance,  doing  it 
with  so  much  gentleness  that  Cecilia's  heart 
went  out  in  pity  to  what  she  conjectured  of 
his  ruined  life.  He  settled  her  as  com- 
fortably as  might  be  in  the  carriage,  and  she 
tried  not  to  notice  the  smell  of  whiskey  that 
hung  about  him,  nor  to  think  of  his  inflamed 

157 


158  THE  CLOUD  IN  THE  SKY 

features,  because  of  something  gentle  and 
capable  that  asserted  itself  in  spite  of  them. 

"I'm  afraid  there  is  too  great  a  distance  be- 
tween your  new  and  your  old  dwellings  for 
us  to  hope  that  you  would  call  to  see  your 
patient,"  Lord  Kilrush  said. 

"Ah,  my  dear,  it  isn't  the  distance,"  the 
doctor  answered;  "it's  only  that — don't  ask 
any  questions  about  me  at  Knocklynn.  'Tis 
no  use  stirring  up  old  troubles.  Only  I  had 
different  thoughts  of  myself  when  first  I  went 
to  Knocklynn.  If  only  the  Lord  hadn't  dealt 
hardly  with  me!" 

"Poor  chap!"  Kilrush  said,  as  the  carriage 
rattled  away.  "I  wish  one  could  give  him  a 
leg  up.  He  lost  his  wife  and  child  during  the 
first  years  he  was  at  Knocklynn.  That's 
what  made  him  take  to  the  drink.  A  decent 
housekeeper  might  have  saved  him.  The  poor 
people  still  talk  of  him  sorrowfully  about 
Knocklynn." 

"She  is  a  dreadful  old  woman,"  said  Cecilia, 
trying  to  conceal  the  intense  pain  she  was 
suffering. 

There  was  a  jolt  of  the  carriage  and  she 
cried  out.  He  leaned  forward  and  lifted  the 
injured  foot  gently  on  its  pillow. 

"Let  me  hold  it  so,"  he  said  gently,  "till 
we  are  off  the  stones.  I  can  keep  it  from 
being  shaken  better  so." 


THE  CLOUD  IN  THE  SKY  159 

"How  kind  you  are!"  she  said,  with  tears 
of  pain  in  her  eyes. 

It  was  not  so  bad  out  on  the  long  coast  road 
which  had  been  made  in  the  famine  years  and 
had  not  had  enough  traffic  on  it  since  to  wear 
it  away.  Dilapidated  as  the  old  chaise  was, 
it  had  yet  good  springs,  and  it  rolled  along 
gently  and  easily  for  the  greater  part.  Only 
now  and  again  it  came  to  a  rough  spot;  and 
because  of  these,  perhaps  because  it  gave  him 
pleasure  to  render  her  so  intimate  a  service, 
he  still  kept  the  little  foot  in  his  hands. 

They  said  very  little  during  that  homeward 
journey:  not  a  word  that  was  not  heard  by 
Patsy  Kerrigan,  the  inn  coacliman,  who  sat 
stiffly  in  front  of  them  recalling  the  great  days 
"before  the  gentry  was  dhruv  out  of  it,  when 
there  was  half  a  dozen  horses  in  the  stables  of 
the  Dromore  Arms,  and  often  not  wan  o'  them 
in  the  stall  with  the  flyin'  an'  skytin'  about  to 
balls  an'  dinner-parties."  Patsy  Kerrigan's 
life  was  a  perpetual  lamentation  for  the  fat 
days  gone  by  and  the  lean  present.  There 
was  not  a  word  he  did  not  hear,  sitting  so 
stiffly  in  his  shabby  old  coat  on  the  box:  not 
a  word  he  might  not  have  told  tlie  whole  Avorld. 
Yet  there  are  many  things  that  pass  from 
heart  to  heart,  spirit  to  spirit,  without  being 
said;  and  to  both  of  these  young  people  the 
drive  was  exquisite.     Kilrush  reproached  him- 


160  THE  CLOUD  IN  THE  SKY 

self  for  a  brute  because  he  was  sorry  when  it 
was  over.  CeciHa,  lying  so  quietly,  half -dazed 
with  bodity  pain,  was  steeped  in  a  beatitude, 
shy  and  delicious,  of  which  she  was  half  afraid. 

Lady  Dromore  and  Sir  Paul  Chadwick  were 
on  the  lawn  when  the  chaise  from  the  Dromore 
Arms  rolled  up.  They  came  forward  in 
alarm  at  seeing  the  half-recumbent  figure  of 
Cecilia. 

"She  has  sprained  her  ankle,  poor  little 
thing,"  said  Kilrush,  making  an  effort  to  get 
back  to  other  people  and  everyday  life.  It 
seemed  a  long  time  that  he  and  Cecilia  had 
been  alone  and  he  ministering  to  her.  "She 
slipped  on  the  horrible  cobbles  in  Drumree. 
They  were  polished  bright.  I  thought  the 
only  thing  to  do  was  to  get  her  home  without 
disturbing  the  others'  arrangements." 

"Are  you  suffering  very  much,  my  poor 
child?"  asked  Lady  Dromore. 

Cecilia's  suffering  was  evident  in  her  white 
face  and  the  dark  marks  about  her  eyes. 

"Poor  little  Cecilia!  How  had  we  better 
move  her?  There  is  a  carrying-chair  in  the 
house." 

"You  should  have  taken  better  care  of  her," 
said  Sir  Paul  Chadwick  almost  roughly  to 
Lord  Kilrush. 

Before  the  latter  could  speak,  Cecilia  opened 
her  eyes. 


THE  CLOUD  IN  THE  SKY  161 

"He  took  great  care  of  me,"  she  said  weakly. 
"He  is  kindness  itself." 

"Then  it  ought  not  to  have  happened,"  Sir 
Paul  said,  in  the  tone  that  brought  the  blood 
to  Kilrush's  cheek  and  made  Lady  Dromore 
look  from  one  man  to  the  other  in  puzzled 
distress. 

The  carrying-chair  was  brought,  but  it  was 
Sir  Paul  Chadwick  and  not  Lord  Kilrush  who 
got  Cecilia  out  of  the  carriage.  She  lay  a 
second  in  his  arms  before  he  put  her  down, 
and  his  eyes  were  full  of  a  tender  compassion. 
The  younger  man  stood  aside  gloomily.  He 
had  been  rebuked  like  a  school-boy. 

However,  as  he  stood  on  the  lawn  a  few 
minutes  later,  feeling  greatly  offended  and  dis- 
turbed, as  much  by  the  breaking-up  of  his 
idyllic  mood,  the  rude  jarring  of  his  exquisite 
moment,  as  anything  else,  some  one  came  up 
behind  him  and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 
Looking  round  he  saw  Sir  Paul  Chadwick. 

"I  am  very  sorry,  Kilrush,"  he  said.  "I 
spoke  hastily.  I  am  sure  it  was  not  your 
fault." 

Kilrush's  debonair  face  cleared  magically. 

"All  right,  Sir  Paul,"  he  said.  "I  daresay 
I  did  look  as  if  I  must  have  been  a  precious 
ass  bringing  her  home  like  that.  I  should 
have  been  in  a  rage  mvself  if  it  were  anybody 
else." 


162  THE  CLOUD  IN  THE  SKY 

And  so  amity  was  restored. 

In  the  days  that  followed,  Cecilia's  sofa 
seemed  to  be  the  center  round  which  life  at 
the  House  of  Dromore  revolved.  There  were 
constant  relays  of  visitors  to  her.  She  was 
heaped  about  with  books  and  fruit  and  flowers 
and  all  manner  of  offerings,  and  there  was  so 
much  sympathy  for  her  that  after  the  first 
shock  and  effects  of  the  wrench  were  over  she 
was  fain  to  protest  that  she  was  winning  so 
much  sympathy  on  false  pretenses. 

The  accident  had  extended  her  holiday. 
By  this  time  Maurice  Grace  and  Ciss  were 
home  from  their  wanderings  abroad  and  es- 
tablished in  a  little  white  house  at  Dalkey, 
high  on  a  rock  like  a  sea-bird's  nest,  which 
they  had  taken  for  a  month  so  that  Cecilia 
might  be  with  them  and  that  they  might  all 
enjoy  the  sea-air  together  before  setthng  down 
for  the  winter. 

They  had  come  to  a  verj'"  unexpected  deci- 
sion. The  White  Cottage  was  to  be  given  up, 
and  Maurice  Grace  was  to  have  at  last 
the  house  in  Merrion  Square  to  which  his 
practice  entitled  him.  It  was  Ciss's  doing. 
Ciss  at  long  last  had  come  out  of  her  mists 
and  dreams.  She  was  quite  prepared  to  live 
the  year  round  in  the  Square.  If  she  felt  any 
pang  at  parting  with  her  dear  cottage  she  did 
not  betray  it. 


THE  CLOUD  IN  THE  SKY  163 

And,  as  the  days  passed,  despite  all  the  warm 
kindness,  Cecilia  began  to  wish  that  she  were 
with  her  father  and  mother;  for  in  two  of  the 
inhabitants  of  the  House  of  Dromore,  and 
those  two  the  dearest,  her  sensitive  spirit  felt 
a  change.  She  had  a  feeling  that  Lady  Dro- 
more would  not  be  very  sorry  to  see  her  go. 
When  the  knowledge  was  first  borne  in  upon 
her  it  gave  her  exquisite  pain.  What  had  she 
done  to  cause  the  little  coldness  that  was  all 
the  more  palj^able  because  Lady  Dromore  was 
invariably  sweetness  itself?  She  did  not  know 
what  she  could  have  done.  She  had  heard  of 
people  outstaying  their  welcome.  But  how 
could  she  ha^e  outstayed  her  welcome  among 
her  own  people,  who  had  seemed  so  fond  of 
her?  The  House  of  Dromore  was  unstinted 
in  its  hospitality — not  like  those  cold  houses 
of  the  great  of  which  Cecilia  had  heard,  where 
a  visitor's  stay  was  limited  to  so  many  days 
and  hours,  and  a  constant  stream  of  arriving 
and  departing  visitors  made  a  cold  simiilacrum 
of  warm  hospitality.  There  might  not  be 
much  money  at  the  House  of  Dromore,  but 
hospitality  there,  as  elsewhere  in  Ireland,  was 
a  matter  of  course,  not  to  be  counted  as  a 
superfluit5\  In  that  excellent  country  where 
the  poor  housewife  puts  an  extra  handful  of 
meal,  or  an  extra  bit  of  bacon  or  a  few  potatoes 
in  the  pot  "for  the  man  coming  over  the  hill," 


164.  THE  CLOUD  IN  THE  SKY 

hospitality  comes  as  naturally  as  the  air  its  peo- 
ple breathe.  Aiid  the  House  of  Dromore  was 
an  open  house,  even  if  the  Dromores  were  poor 
for  their  station. 

In  Betty,  too,  there  was  a  subtle  change. 
Sometimes  she  would  have  a  spasmodic  out- 
burst of  tenderness  for  Cecilia,  but  the  out- 
burst over,  the  little  cloud  would  descend  be- 
tween them  again,  something  which  Cecilia 
could  not  define  nor  brush  away.  Once 
Cecilia  asked  piteously  what  she  had  done ;  and 
Betty,  not  looking  at  her,  had  answered  with 
a  cold  brightness  which  was  not  at  all  decep- 
tive, that  Cecilia  had  done  nothing,  nothing  at 
all.     What  could  Cecilia  have  done? 

That  was  what  Cecilia  wanted  to  know. 
With  that  strange  something  in  Lady  Dro- 
more and  in  Betty,  what  comfort  was  it  to 
Cecilia  that  the  boys  yet  adored  her  openly; 
that  Lord  Dromore  patted  her  on  the  head  as 
he  came  and  went  with  an  absent-minded  kind- 
ness; that  Sir  Paul  Chadwick  was  ever  at  her 
beck  and  call;  even  that  Kilrush,  when  he  re- 
turned from  those  visits  to  Dublin  which 
he  departed  on  with  obvious  unwillingness, 
brought  her  all  manner  of  delicate  offerings. 
Nothing  consoled  her  for  the  strange  coldness 
on  the  part  of  the  two  she  loved  best  out  of 
all  the  family. 

Mrs.  Chapman  occasionally  visited  Cecilia's 


THE  CLOUD  IX  THE  SKY  165 

sofa,  and  would  look  at  her  with  bright,  half- 
amused  eyes:  she  had  a  perpetual  air  of  look- 
ing on  at  the  human  comedy,  but  would  say 
very  little.  She  had  been  kind  to  Cecilia,  giv- 
ing her  a  quaint  ornament  or  two  and  a  bit  of 
fihny  lace,  because  she  was  Cecily's  daughter. 

In  her  quiet  moments,  when  she  was  left  a 
little  while  to  herself,  it  had  occurred  to  Cecilia 
again  how  easy  a  matter  it  would  be  to  bring 
Cecily  to  the  home  of  her  people :  how  natural 
a  thing,  seeing  tlie  accident  that  had  happened 
to  her  girl.  But  no  one  suggested  the  easy, 
natural  thing. 

There  came  an  afternoon  of  sultry  heat  when 
Cecilia  slept  on  her  sofa,  which  had  been  carried 
out  of  doors  on  to  the  terrace.  Cecilia  slept, 
and  into  her  ear  there  came  a  sound  of  voices 
— at  first  mingling  with  her  dreams,  then  dis- 
tinct from  them,  the  words  they  said  in  time 
apprehended. 

"And  you  think  Betty  cares?"  said  a  voice 
that  was  surely  Mrs.  Chapman's. 

"^Iv  friend,  not  to  a  soul  on  earth  would  I 
reveal  it  but  to  you.  Not  to  the  child's  father 
even.  I  am  as  careful  for  Betty  as  Betty 
could  be  for  herself.  But  to  you  I  confess 
it,  because  you  love  Betty.  I  am  sure  she 
cares." 

The  voice  was  Ladj^  Dromore's 

"Haven't  vou  noticed  that  Betty  no  longer 


166  THE  CLOUD  IN  THE  SKY 

dances  through  life?  Betty  has  grown  seri- 
ous. When  she  is  gay  it  is  fitful  and  spas- 
modic; to  my  ear  her  laughter  does  not  ring 
true. 

"Before  Cecily's  daughter  came,  Kilrush 
was,  if  not  quite  in  love  with  Betty,  at  all 
events  nearly  in  love.  Cecily's  daughter  is  a 
heavenly  creature,  like  Cecily  herself.  I  con- 
fess I  dread  Cecily's  inheritance  for  her.  I 
had  rather  have  my  wholesome  Betty  for  Kil- 
rush. 

"She  cannot  go  just  yet.  Poor  child,  to 
think  that  I  should  want  her  to  go,  the  23retty 
creature.  Yet  I  have  to  think  of  my  own  child 
first." 

"And  of  Kilrush."  Mrs.  Chapman  spoke 
with  an  emphasis.  There  was  a  second's 
pause:  then  she  went  on:  "And  Paul  Chad- 
wick  is  infatuated  with  her.  Strange  that, 
having  broken  his  heart  over  the  mother,  he 
should  fall  in  love  with  the  daughter.  It  is 
a  thousand  pities  he  is  not  ten  or  fifteen  years 
j'ounger." 

"That  would  be  a  crux,  too.  How  would 
Ciss  meet  Paul  Chadwick?  I  wonder  if  he 
has  quite  faded  from  her  memory  during  the 
years  ?" 

"You  are  afraid  to  have  her  here?" 

"It  might  unsettle  her.     She  has  been  con- 


THE  CLOUD  IN  THE  SKY  167 

tent  with  the  good  bourgeois  husband  all  those 
years." 

"Is  he  so  impossible?" 

"He  improved  with  the  years.  The  last 
time  I  saw  him — it  is  a  good  many  years  now 
— I  thought  he  had  gained  greatly  in  a  cer- 
tain quiet  dignity  of  manner.  He  has  done 
wonderfully  well  in  his  j^rofession,  better  than 
any  one  could  have  anticipated.  He  was  very 
much  a  yomig  man  of  the  people  in  those  days, 
but — I  forgot  that,  seeing  his  wonderful  love 
for  Ciss.     On  that  plane  we  met." 

"H'm!"  Mrs.  Chapman's  tone  was  dry. 
*'It  might  upset  the  whole  business  if  she  were 
to  come  face  to  face  with  Paul  Chadwick. 
Paul  grows  handsomer,  more  distinguished- 
looking  with  the  years.  If  I  were  a  young 
girl,  I  should  be  head  over  ears  in  love  with 
Paul  Chadwick.  Do  you  suppose  Cecily  has 
ever  realized  that  her  old  lover  lives?  The  girl 
will  have  mentioned  his  name  in  her  letters 
surely." 

"Dear  me!  What  a  coil  it  is !"  Lady  Dro- 
more  sighed.  "I  am  almost  sorry  that  we  ever 
came  across  Ciss's  daughter.  By  the  way, 
Betty  seemed  to  find  nothing  wrong  with  Ciss. 
She  raved  of  her  beauty  and  grace.  I  can  see 
Ciss  trailing  about  as  Betty  described  her." 

Cecilia  sitting  up  on  her  sofa,  with  wide  eyes 


168  THE  CLOUD  IN  THE  SKY 

of  grief  and  pain,  beat  with  her  hands  at  her 
dehcate  ears  but  could  not  prevent  the  passage 
of  the  words.  She  was  intolerably  hurt,  so 
hurt  that  she  felt  with  the  hopelessness  of 
youth  as  though  she  never  again  could  be  un- 
hurt and  happy  as  of  old. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A   SQUIRE    OF   LOW   DEGREE 

Cecilia  left  the  House  of  Dromore  a  day  or 
two  later,  before  her  ankle  was  nearly  well, 
as  Lady  Dromore  complained  almost  tearfully. 
The  last  thing  Lady  Dromore  wished  was  that 
Ciss's  daughter  should  go  off  hastily,  unfit 
for  travel  or  movement  as  though  she  were  not 
a  dear  child  of  the  house  and  her  welfare  as 
dear  to  them  as  that  of  one  of  her  own  chil- 
dren. 

They  all  protested  against  Cecilia's  leaving 
them.  Why,  half  the  programme  they  had  de- 
vised for  her  delight  was  not  exhausted.  And 
Guy  had  counted  that  he  and  Cecilia  should 
travel  together  as  far  as  Dublin  when  he  was 
on  his  way  back  to  school.  That  journey  was 
to  have  been  Guy's  opportunity  for  showing 
Cecilia  that  he  could  take  care  of  her  as  well 
as  the  grown-up  ones  who  had  pushed  him 
ruthlessly  from  Cecilia's  side,  as  though  four- 
teen had  no  rights  and  no  feelings.  There 
was  a  loud  outcry  wlien  Cecilia  said  she  must 
go;  only  Betty's  protests  rang  feeble  to 
Cecilia's  ear.     Betty  was  invariably  sweet  to 

169 


170         A  SQUIRE  OF  LOW  DEGREE 

Cecilia,  cold  and  sweet ;  and  the  coldness  nearly- 
broke  Cecilia's  heart,  for  she  had  conceived  an 
ardent  girl's  passion  for  Betty.  She  longed 
to  tell  her,  only  she  dared  not,  that  nothing  in 
all  the  world  would  have  induced  her  to  stand 
in  Betty's  way.  She  looked  back  heart- 
brokenly  on  all  the  times  and  occasions  in 
which  by  accident  she  and  Kilrush  had  been 
thrown  together.  She  had  had  no  right  to 
those  stolen,  accidental  sweetnesses.  And 
what  a  dreadful  thing  it  was  that  she  should 
have  enjoyed  them  at  Betty's  expense!  that 
the  eyes  and  the  lips  and  the  turn  of  the  head 
and  the  voice  and  the  step  of  Betty's  lover 
should  have  come  to  mean  so  much  to  her! 

Poor  Cecilia  watered  her  pillow  with  her 
tears  during  the  night  that  intervened  between 
making  her  decision  known  and  her  going. 
She  was  feverishly  anxious  to  be  gone  before 
Kilrush  could  return.  She  never  wanted  to 
see  him  again,  Betty's  lover!  Oh,  if  he  could 
know  the  things  she  had  been  feeling  and 
thinking  about  him!  To  be  sure  he  had  only 
meant  kindness,  such  kindness  and  affection 
as  they  had  all  shown  to  her.  She  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands  and  cowered  in  the  silence 
of  the  night  from  the  thoughts  she  had  had 
of  his  kindness — Betty's  lover! 

Lady  Dromore's  genuine  trouble  over 
Cecilia's  leaving  so  abruptly,  before  her  ankle 


A  SQUIRE  OF  LOW  DEGREE  171 

was  well,  seemed  to  hurt  Cecilia  sharply. 
Lady  Dromore's  sensitive  conscience  had  been 
fretting  her.  Had  she  by  word  or  look,  by 
omission  or  commission,  by  something  subtler 
than  either  let  the  poor  child  feel  that  she  must 
go?  Her  anxious  sweetness  was  hard  for 
Cecilia  to  bear. 

But  at  last  it  was  all  over.  She  had  seen 
the  last  of  the  kind,  happy  faces,  and  the  wav- 
ing handkerchiefs,  as  the  train  puffed  its  way 
out  of  the  station. 

She  had  the  carriage  to  herself.  Lady 
Dromore  had  been  rather  shocked  at  the 
thought  of  Cecilia  traveling  alone,  and  had  im- 
plored her  to  wait  till  she  had  provided  an  es- 
cort. But  at  the  mere  question  of  delay  Cecilia 
had  displayed  such  a  positive  anguish  of  desire 
to  be  gone  that  Lady  Dromore,  sighing,  had 
given  up  the  contest.  To  be  sure,  girls  were 
very  different  from  what  they  had  been  in  her 
time.  They  did  all  manner  of  things  now  that 
would  have  been  inadmissible  in  her  time. 
Even  her  girls  when  they  left  her  side  did 
things  her  mother  would  never  have  considered 
admissible  for  her.  She  supposed  she  was  old- 
fashioned.  Sighing,  she  gave  up  her  struggle 
to  do  things  decently  and  in  order  for  Cecilia. 

It  was  fortunate  that  Cecilia  had  the  car- 
riage to  herself,  and  continued  to  have  it  to 
herself    till    she    reached    Limerick    Junction. 


172         A  SQUIRE  OF  LOW  DEGREE 

She  wanted  to  be  alone,  and  she  meant  not  to 
weep;  she  had  meant  to  endure  the  sudden 
chilHness  and  grayness  that  had  come  upon  her. 
But  the  sight  of  their  gifts — the  flowers,  the 
fruit,  the  luncheon-basket,  the  books  to  be  read 
on  the  way,  the  puppy  which  Guy  had  given 
her  struggling  in  its  basket — all  moved  her  to 
tears,  to  think  that  so  much  had  been,  and  was 
all  over. 

For  a  little  while  she  watched  with  bleak 
eyes  the  puppy's  hamper  as  it  wriggled  here 
and  there  in  the  puppy's  frantic  efforts  after 
freedom.  At  last  she  cut  the  cord  and  lifted 
the  lid  of  the  basket.  The  puppy  sprang  into 
her  arms,  and  shivering  with  delight,  fell  to  an 
ardent  licking  of  her  hands  and  her  face.  She 
wept  on  the  silky  head,  while  the  puppy  did 
his  best  to  show  that  he  was  sorry  for  her  and 
longed  to  console  her.  After  all,  he  was  a  com- 
forting thing,  and  presently  the  tears  ceased 
to  flow,  and  she  sat  up  in  the  carriage  clasping 
the  puppy  closer  to  her  while  she  surveyed  the 
landscape  with  eyes  for  once  undelighted. 

Ciss  met  her  at  the  station,  and  gave  her  a 
warm  welcome  for  Ciss.  She  was  apparently 
quite  unaware  of  the  dullness  and  flatness 
which  Cecilia  found  in  herself;  but  then  Ciss 
had  never  been  an  observant  person.  The  dis- 
tance which  had  been  steadily  lessening  be- 
tween her  and  those  she  loved  yet  held  her 


A  SQUIRE  OF  LOW  DEGREE  173 

somewhat  apart.  She  saw  nothing  amiss  ap- 
parently in  Ceciha's  lack-luster  answers  to  her 
many  questions  about  the  House  of  Dromore. 
Many  questions  there  were.  It  seemed  oddly 
incongruous  in  Ciss  that  she  should  "run  on;" 
but  run  on  she  did,  and  Cecilia  was  relieved 
that  she  had  not  to  bear  the  burden  of  the 
conversation.  Fortunately,  her  letters  had 
been  diffuse.  Up  to  the  day  before  yesterday 
she  had  written  sheets  to  Ciss  about  the  life 
among  the  cousins.  Ciss  knew  so  much  about 
it  that  she  was  quite  capable  of  answering  her- 
self. 

Presently  she  asked  Cecilia  about  Sir  Paul 
Chadwick. 

"1  knew  him  when  I  was  a  girl,"  she  said, 
the  mood  of  quiet  dreaminess  coming  down 
upon  her.  "He  was  very  handsome  then.  Is 
his  hair  so  dark?  Are  his  eyes  so  bright?  Is 
he  as  distinguished-looking  as  of  old?  And 
so  you  went  to  Arlo?  Strange  that  he  has 
never  given  Arlo  a  mistress." 

It  was  easier  to  talk  about  Sir  Paul  Chad- 
wick than  about  the  cousins:  the  thought  of 
Betty's  cold  sweetness  ached  like  a  sore  place 
in  Cecilia's  memory  of  the  cousins;  so  Cecilia 
talked  of  Sir  Paul  while  the  train  bore  them 
out  along  the  shores  of  Dublin  Bay,  between 
the  sea  and  the  mountains  to  Dalkey.  The 
little  house  with  the   Irish   name   comforted 


174.  A  SQUIRE  OF  LOW  DEGREE 

Cecilia  somewhat  for  the  loss  of  the  White 
Cottage.  They  were  to  have  Glan-na-Tore 
for  their  own,  summer  after  summer.  It  was 
jjerched  on  rocks  at  the  sea's  edge.  It  was 
bare  and  clean  and  shining  like  the  deck  of  a 
ship.  From  these  windows  you  saw  nothing 
but  sea:  from  those  nothing  but  mountains. 
A  flight  of  steps  led  one  from  the  door  at  the 
back  of  the  little  hall  down  to  the  rocks,  be- 
tween which  the  tide  poured  in  and  made,  at 
high  tide,  a  delightful  bathing-place.  Despite 
her  broken  heart,  Ceciha  was  glad  of  this  little, 
clean,  bright  eyrie,  in  every  room  of  which  one 
tasted  and  smelt  the  sea.  It  would  have  been 
harder  to  go  back  to  JNIerrion  Square. 

The  Merrion  Square  house  was  being  fur- 
bished up  for  Ciss  and  Cecilia.  Ciss  took 
characteristicall}^  little  interest  in  the  house 
decoration  and  plenishing,  pathetically  little, 
considering  her  husband's  thought  and  care  for 
her. 

But  Cecilia  roused  herself  from  the  new 
apathy  which  had  come  upon  her  to  be  inter- 
ested. Cecilia  from  the  time  she  could  walk 
alone  had  always  had  an  unchildish  understand- 
ing of  the  fact  that  she  must  be  interested  in 
papa's  things  because  mamma  heeded  so  little. 
PajDa  would  consult  her  as  though  she  were 
mamma.  "Your  mother  would  like  this, 
Cecilia  ?"     "Your  mother  never  could  bear  such 


A  SQUIRE  OF  LOW  DEGREE  175 

a  color,  Cecilia?"  Between  them  they  pieced 
out  her  tastes  and  her  fancies  so  that  they  might 
be  gratified. 

Cecilia  had  written  dutifully  to  Lady  Dro- 
more.  She  had  had  letters  from  her,  from 
Dermot,  from  Guy,  from  Betty,  letters  which 
she  read  till  she  knew  them  by  heart,  letters 
which  she  carried  about  with  her  and  read  at 
odd  moments. 

She  had  a  good  many  moments  to  herself 
when  her  father  was  in  town  and  did  not  re- 
quire her  companionship.  Ciss  could  always 
amuse  herself  at  her  harp,  at  the  piano,  em- 
broidering, doing  her  exquisitely  fine  needle- 
work, when  she  did  not  seem  to  need  even  her 
daughter's  companionship.  Cecilia  liked  to 
steal  away  to  a  nook  in  the  rocks,  where  she 
was  freed  from  all  human  observation.  The 
puppy.  Beau,  would  accompany  her  and  make 
himself  happy  on  a  corner  of  her  skirt.  There 
would  be  nothing  visible  but  the  sea  and  the 
island :  nothing  living  except  the  sea-gulls  and 
occasionally  a  fisherman  or  two  in  their  boats 
inspecting  their  lines. 

She  was  sitting,  her  hands  clasped  about  her 
knees,  looking  away  to  the  island.  Farther 
away,  Howth  showed  purple  and  golden  with 
the  heatlier  and  the  gorse.  She  was  sitting  in 
shadow,  but  beyond  the  little  house  the  sunset 
was  flooding  the  world  with  its  splendor. 


176         A  SQUIRE  OF  LOW  DEGREE 

She  was  remembering  with  some  wonder 
how  papa  had  asked  her  yesterday,  with  a  hesi- 
tation that  had  struck  her  as  curious,  about  Sir 
Paul  Chadwick.  He  had  asked  her  minutely 
about  him,  how  he  looked,  how  he  spent  his  life, 
what  people  thought  of  him,  and  so  on  till  he 
had  extracted  from  Cecilia  all  the  information 
she  could  give  him. 

"You  know  him,  papa?"  she  said,  at  last; 
and  remembered  something  of  the  conversation 
she  had  overheard  between  Lady  Dromore  and 
]Mrs.  Chapman.  Sir  Paul  had  once  been  her 
mother's  lover  and  might  j^et  be  hers.  But,  no, 
no ;  she  shrank  from  the  latter  suggestion.  He 
was  too  old  for  love,  to  Cecilia's  mind,  compar- 
ing his  distinguished  age  with  another's  golden 
youth. 

"No;  I  did  not  know  him.  He  was  an  old 
friend  of  your  mother's.  In  the  days  when  I 
was  at  the  House  of  Dromore  he  was  away 
on  his  travels.     He  was  a  great  traveler." 

"Yes,  I  know.  I  have  read  something  about 
his  travels.  And  I  knew  he  was  an  old  friend 
of  mother's.     She  talked  to  me  about  him." 

Something  passed  over  Maurice  Grace's 
face  as  though  he  had  been  flicked  by  a  whip 
and  shrank  from  it. 

"Ah!"  he  said.  "I  thought  she  had  forgot- 
ten him,"  and  then  he  asked  no  more. 

Cecilia  was  thinking  of  her  father  and  mother 


A  SQUIRE  OF  LOW  DEGREE  177 

and  Sir  Paul  Chad  wick,  watching  idly  the  lit- 
tle pool  at  her  feet  left  by  the  outgoing  tide, 
which  was  full  of  floating,  delicate  bits  of  sea- 
weed, tiny  crabs,  little  seashells  and  many  such 
pretty  things. 

Suddenly  her  name  was  spoken  close  to  her. 
She  looked  up  and  the  color  came  to  her 
cheek,  color  which  was  misunderstood  by  the 
one  who  had  caused  it. 

"So  you  are  back,  Cecilia?"  said  Bernard 
Grace,  sitting  down  beside  her  familiarly.  "I 
came  at  the  first  possible  moment.  I  was  in 
London,  as  of  course  you  heard,  giving  evidence 
before  a  House  of  Lords'  Committee.  That's 
the  place  for  a  man  to  live!  London's  alive, 
not  like  this  old  dead  city  of  ours." 

Cecilia  moved  a  little  away  from  him.  His 
presence  had  given  a  rude  shock  to  her  dreams. 

"I  had  not  heard  you  were  away,"  she  said, 
coldly. 

"By  Jove!  You  don't  mean  to  say  they 
didn't  tell  you  ?  You  might  have  seen  it  in  the 
papers  for  the  matter  of  that.  I  suppose  they 
took  a  paper  at  those  fine  cousins  of  yours? 
Or  hadn't  they  intelligence  enough  for  even  a 
daily  paper?  Lord  Dromore's  one  of  the  dead 
sort,  isn't  he?  No  good  to  anybody  but  him- 
self. A  standing  argument  against  the  rights 
of  the  classes — hey  ?" 

Again   the   color   came   to   Cecilia's   cheek. 


178         A  SQUIRE  OF  LOW  DEGREE 

She  refused  to  answer  Bernard  Grace's  ques- 
tions. 

"How  did  you  find  me  here?"  she  asked. 

"I  asked  Nannie,  who  opened  the  door  to  me, 
where  you  were  and  she  told  me.  I  didn't 
come  to  see  your  mother.  I  am  not  the  sort 
who  goes  to  see  mothers — hey,  Ceciha?"  He 
emphasized  his  point  with  a  nudge  of  his  elbow. 
"So  I  just  walked  straight  out.  And  now, 
aren't  you  glad  to  see  me,  little  girl?  I  can 
tell  you  you  seem  to  me  to  have  been  a  con- 
foundedly long  time  away.  I'd  have  come 
after  you  if  I  hadn't  had  to  go  to  London, 
What  would  you  have  thought  if  you  had  seen 
me  walking  into  the  House  of  Dromore,  hey?'* 

Cecilia's  vision  of  him  walking  into  the 
House  of  Dromore  was  happily  concealed 
from  him.  She  made  no  answer.  In  the 
shadow  where  she  was  sitting  her  small  face 
looked  oddly  cold,  cold  and  a  little  unhappy; 
contemptuous  as  well. 

Bernard  Grace,  who  was  usually  happy 
enough  when  talking  about  himself,  noticed 
her  silence  at  last.  He  turned  and  stared  at 
her.  Then,  to  her  intense  indignation,  lifted 
her  face  by  the  chin.  She  pulled  away  from 
him  angrily. 

"Hoity  toity!"  he  laughed;  "we're  cousins, 
aren't  we?     You  needn't  be  so  angry,  Ceciha. 


A  SQUIRE  OE  LOW  DEGREE  179 

Lots  of  girls  would  let  me  do  more  than  that, 
if  I  wanted  to." 

She  eyed  him  with  cold  distaste;  and  Beau, 
as  though  he  understood  the  scene,  fell  to  bark- 
ing wildly,  with  every  appearance  of  hostility, 
at  Bernard  Grace. 

*'Never  mind,"  he  said.  "I  won't  do  it 
again.  Till  you  ask  me,  at  least,  Cecilia.  Shut 
up,  you  fool  of  a  dog!  I'm  quite  friendly  to 
your  mistress.  You  don't  look  as  though 
they'd  been  very  good  to  you,  Cecilia,  those  fine 
relations  of  yours.  What  have  they  been 
doing?" 

He  put  his  face  nearer  to  hers  as  he  asked 
the  question,  and  misunderstood  again  the 
pained  flood  of  color  that  momentarily  rushed 
to  her  cheeks. 

"You'd  better  have  come  to  us,"  he  said, 
with  a  self-satisfied  air.  "You  are  not  looking 
at  all  your  best,  Cecilia.  Not  happy  with 
them,  hey?  I  saw  old  Dromore  once,  and  he 
looked  as  though  he  were  made  of  starch.  I've 
been  hobnobbing  with  much  bigger  men  on  the 
other  side  than  he  is,  Cecilia.  You  should  see 
how  they  listened  to  my  evidence.  And  the 
compliments  they  paid  me.  London's  a  splen- 
did place.  I  felt  more  at  home  there  than  I  do 
here :  though  it  wouldn't  do  to  make  that  state- 
ment in  public,  hey?     You've  never  been  to 


180  A  SQUIRE  OF  LOW  DEGREE 

London.  What  a  hermit  j^ou  are!  You've 
never  been  anywhere.  Your  husband  will 
have  to  show  you  the  world.  What  would  you 
think  of  London  and  Paris  for  a  honeymoon, 
eh,  Cecilia?" 

Cecilia  looked  at  him  with  such  positive  aver- 
sion that  it  pierced  even  his  armor  of  self-con- 
ceit. 

"Hang  it  all!"  he  said.  "Don't  look  at  me 
like  that.  I'm  not  a  snake  nor  a  toad  nor  a 
black  beetle.  You  haven't  got  so  uppish  as  all 
that  because  the  Dromores  have  taken  notice  of 
j^ou  at  last,  after  all  those  years,  have  you  ?  I 
can  tell  you  it  isn't  every  man  in  my  position 
would  want  to  marry  you,  so  you  needn't  be  so 
stand-off  and  particular." 

Cecilia,  not  frightened,  but  shocked  by  his 
violence,  had  stood  up.  They  were  confront- 
ing each  other  on  the  narrow  little  platform  be- 
tween the  rocks.  The  puppy  stood  between 
them  growling,  and  showing  a  little  ridge  of 
hair  along  his  silky  back. 

"I  haven't  forgotten  how  that  fellow  be- 
haved to  me  the  last  time  I  saw  you,"  he  went 
on,  "though  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  over- 
look it  so  far  as  you  were  concerned.  I'm  as 
good  a  man  as  he  and  better,  and  I'll  show  it 
to  him  if  I  get  the  chance.  What  do  I  care 
about  beggarly  Irish  lords  ?  They  didn't  treat 
your  mother  very  well  between  them;  and  if 


A  SQUIRE  OF  LOW  DEGREE  181 

they're  going  to  play  fast  and  loose  with  you, 
I'll  see  to  it,  Cecilia." 

He  had  raised  his  voice  more  than  he  knew. 

"Be  quiet,"  Cecilia  said,  imperiously.  "You 
don't  want  the  whole  neighborhood  to  hear 
you." 

"I  don't  care  who  hears  me,"  he  said,  stutter- 
ing in  his  passion;  but  nevertheless  he  did 
lower  his  voice.  And  now  Ciss  came  out  on 
the  balcony  of  her  little  room  and  called  down 
to  him. 

"Is  it  you,  Bernard?  I  did  not  know  you 
were  here.  Will  you  not  come  in  and  have 
some  tea?" 

He  answered  her  surlily.  Nevertheless  he 
went  and  left  Cecilia  alone,  to  her  great  relief. 
She  did  not  join  them  in  Ciss's  little  drawing- 
room  where,  in  a  sulky  silence,  Bernard  Grace 
drank  half  a  dozen  cups  of  tea  before  taking 
his  departure  for  the  railway  station;  Ciss^,  with 
her  air  of  absolute  unconsciousness,  bridging 
over  his  silence  by  speech  of  her  own. 

"You  should  not  provoke  him,  Cecilia,"  said 
Ciss,  when  he  had  gone  at  last.  "Bernard  is 
not  a  nice  person  when  he  is  angry.  What  was 
his  voice  raised  about  ?  He  does  not  know  that 
he  should  not  speak  like  that  to  a  woman. 
Yet  for  papa's  sake  and  for  Gran's  sake,  it  is 
better  to  avoid  an  open  quarrel  with  Bernard 
Grace  and  his  family." 


182  A  SQUIRE  OF  LOW  DEGREE 

"He  is  hateful,"  said  Cecilia,  a  red  spot  in 
either  cheek.  She  had  not  answered  her 
mother's  question,  and  Ciss  forbore  to  press  it. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"good-by  for  evermore" 

The  Druid's  Chair  on  Killiney  Hill  over- 
looks the  most  wonderful  picture  of  mountain 
and  sea  and  smiling  country.  Cecilia  loved  to 
walk  there  and  to  overlook  the  beauty  of  the 
world,  although  now  it  had  no  longer  the  joy- 
ous appeal  it  had  once  had.  Once  she  had  sat 
in  the  Druid's  Chair  and  wished  vaguely,  ro- 
mantically, for  love  and  a  lover.  Now  the  lover 
had  come  and  the  love,  but  neither  was  hers  by 
right.  If  she  could  make  both  hers  by  reach- 
ing out  her  hand  for  them  she  must  not  do  it ! 

On  this  late  afternoon  of  September  she  had 
the  place  pretty  well  to  herself.  The  nurse- 
maids and  children  who  had  had  the  enterprise 
to  climb  the  steep  hill  had  gone  home  to  their 
tea.  For  quite  half  an  hour  no  one  had  toiled 
in  sight,  to  travel  round  the  four  sides  of  the 
hill,  staying  a  few  moments  to  gaze  at  the 
changing  views  as  they  presented  themselves, 
before  disappearing  down  the  steep  path  again, 
little  by  little. 

Cecilia  sat  and  looked  into  the  sunset.  She 
faced  the  mountains,  the  eastward  slopes  of 

183 


184  "GOOD-BY  FOR  EVERMORE'* 

which  were  in  shadow.  She  felt  strangely 
lonely,  with  a  girl's  wistful  loneliness.  Away 
there  to  the  south-west  were  those  with  whom 
she  had  been  so  very  happy.  Ungrateful 
Cecilia,  not  conscious  of  ingratitude,  dated 
happiness  from  her  visit  to  the  House  of  Dro- 
more,  not  being  old  enough  or  wise  enough  to 
count  the  happiness  which  always  remained 
to  her. 

She  rested  her  chin  in  her  hand,  her  elbow 
on  her  knee,  and  gazed  away  with  mournful 
eyes  to  the  south-west  where  lay  the  happiness 
from  which  she  was  henceforth  excluded.  She 
said  to  herself  that  she  was  forgotten.  She  was 
at  home  ten  days  and  no  second  letter  had 
come  from  the  cousins.  Of  course  Lord  Kil- 
rush  had  returned  to  them  from  Dublin.  He 
always  stayed  at  the  House  of  Dromore  in- 
stead of  going  to  his  own  great  empty  house 
when  he  was  in  those  parts.  And  of  course 
he  was  quite  happy  with  Betty  and  Betty  with 
him.  They  never  missed  Cecilia.  She  had 
come  into  their  lives  for  a  little  while  and  ffone 
out  of  them  again.  She  was  only  an  accident, 
poor  Cecilia!  And  Betty  had  been  glad  to  see 
her  go. 

She  was  so  absorbed  in  her  melancholy  that 
she  did  not  notice  a  long  shadow  flung  on  the 
sunlit  sward  in  front  of  her  till  the  substance 
came  so  close  that  it  stood  between  her  and  the 


"GOOD-BY  FOR  EVERMORE"  185 

sun.  She  looked  up  startled,  with  a  fear  that 
Bernard  Grace  had  come  to  press  his  unwel- 
come suit,  and  saw — Lord  Kilrush. 

He  was  come  and  the  autumn  day  which  had 
been  full  of  vague  sadness  was  suddenly  flood- 
ed with  delight.  The  blood  rushed  through  her 
veins.  Her  heart,  after  the  first  quick  leap  of 
joy,  settled  down  to  a  soft  palpitation.  He 
was  looking  at  her  witlr  something  in  his  gaze 
that  made  the  blood  beat  in  her  cheek.  Her 
eyes  fell  before  his.  For  a  few  moments  she 
forgot  Betty. 

"Well,"  he  said ;  "I  called  at  Glan-na-Tore, 
and  your  mother  told  me  where  I  should  find 
you.  She  was  awfully  good  to  me.  I  was  so 
afraid  I  might  have  missed  you  somehow  on 
the  road  that  I  nearly  shouted  when  I  saw  you. 
Are  you  glad  to  see  me,  Cecilia?" 

He  had  been  holding  her  hand  in  his.  Now 
he  sat  down  beside  her  without  relinquishing  it 
and  looked  into  her  face,  averted  from  him  un- 
der the  large  hat  she  was  wearing.  What  he 
saw  there  apparently  satisfied  him,  for  he 
smiled  to  himself. 

"Are  you  glad  to  see  me,  Cecilia?"  he  re- 
peated softly.  "I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  little 
Cecilia.  You  can't  imagine  how  bereft  a  place 
the  House  of  Dromore  seemed  when  I  came 
back  and  found  you  gone." 

An  untimely  visitor  came  round  the  corner 


186  "GOOD-BY  FOR  EVERMORE" 

of  the  hill  and  gazed  at  them  curiously.  Kil- 
rush  objurgated  the  harmless  person  mentally, 
and  sat  bolt  upright,  having  dropped  Cecilia's 
hand.  He  was  occupied  for  a  few  seconds,  .till 
the  visitor  passed  out  of  sight,  in  selecting  a 
cigar  from  his  case.  When  the  last  vestige  of 
the  intruder  had  disappeared,  he  laid  the  cigar 
with  deliberation  back  in  its  case,  and  put  out 
his  hand  again  for  Cecilia's. 

But  what  had  happened  in  that  tiny  inter- 
val? The  intruder,  some  harmless  tourist  or 
other,  might  have  been  an  evil  magician  who, 
with  a  stroke  of  his  wand,  had  laid  Kilrush's 
shining  castle  in  ruins. 

Cecilia  was  chilly  and  pale,  as  he  had  seen 
her  at  first  and  been  dismayed  so  to  see  her. 
She  was  pinched — like  a  white  flower  in  the 
frost.  Not  a  trace  was  there  of  the  rosy 
Cecilia,  just  opening  to  love  like  a  new  rose, 
of  a  few  minutes  before.  Her  eyes  seemed  as 
though  tears  had  frozen  in  them.  She  looked 
at  him,  piteous  and  alarmed.  Good  heavens — 
what  had  he  done  to  bring  that  look  of  fear  to 
a  woman's  face,  to  any  woman's,  much  less  to 
his  sweetheart's? 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked  in  dismay. 
*'I  thought  we  knew  each  other  well  enough, 
darling — haven't  I  been  making  love  to  you 
ever  since  that  day  at  the  convent? — for  me  to 
show  how  glad  I  was  to  see  you  without  fright- 


"GOOD-BY  FOR  EVERMORE"  18T 

ening  you.  Why,  child,  I  thought  I  had  only 
to  put  out  my  arms  to  you  and  that  you  would 
come  into  them,  my  shy  bird.  What  is  it,  my 
little  Ceciha?" 

There  was  not  a  soul  in  sight.  Not  that  he 
looked  to  see  if  there  was.  He  put  his  arms 
about  her  imj)ulsively  and  drew  her  to  him. 
For  a  second  she  was  against  his  breast. 
Through  her  own  heart-beats  she  could  feel 
the  great  passionate  throbs  of  his  heart  against 
her  side. 

Then  an  amazing  thing  happened — for  Kil- 
rush.  She  repulsed  him.  Her  two  hands 
which  he  had  lifted  to  his  neck  struggled  from 
his  hold  and  repulsed  him,  pushed  hard  against 
his  breast.  Her  mouth  avoided  his  kisses. 
She  drew  away  from  him,  almost  violently. 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  "you  must  never  say 
such  things:  you  must  never  do  such  things 
again." 

"Why  not,"  he  asked,  "since  I  love  you? 
Why  do  you  set  yourself  against  me,  since  you 
love  me?  Come  back  into  my  arms,  Cecilia. 
I  have  been  patient  long  enough,  giving  you 
time.  You  would  know  how  patient  if  you 
knew  how  much  my  arms  have  wanted  you." 

For  a  second  the  rose  again  beat  in  her 
cheeks.  His  words  intoxicated  her.  Then  a 
great  liorror  withered  all  her  joy.  She,  to  steal 
Betty's  lover!     To  repay  all  their  dear  good- 


188  "GOOD-BY  FOR  EVERMORE" 

ness  to  her  by  such  a  treachery  I  She  would 
rather  die  ten  thousand  deaths  than  do  such  a 
thing. 

"Are  you  coming?"  he  asked,  looking  into 
her  face,  "coming  to  tell  me  that  you  love  me? 
Don't  set  yourself  against  me,  child.  I  have 
been  careful  of  you  because  you  are  so  young," 
he  said  it  with  a  triumphant  joy  in  his  voice. 
"Because  j^ou  are  so  young.  But  I  have 
waited  long  enough.  I  am  hungry  to  hear 
you  say,  'I  love  you.'  " 

"Oh,  but  I  shall  never  say  it,"  she  said, 
breaking  into  tears.  How  was  she  to  make 
him  understand  without  betraying  Betty  and 
herself?  Why,  it  was  worse  than  she  had 
thought.  He  loved  her.  She  had  come  like  a 
mean  thing  into  the  house  that  had  received 
her  with  so  much  kindness  and  had  stolen  her 
cousin's  lover.  Betty  would  be  heart-broken. 
No  wonder  Betty  had  been  cold  to  her.  But 
it  was  an  infamy  she  would  not  have  thrust 
upon  her,  no  matter  how  the  traitor  within  the 
gates  begged  and  pleaded  with  her  to  yield  to 
her  lover. 

He  was  horrified  at  the  sight  of  her  tears. 
He  would  have  caressed  her  in  his  tender  pity, 
but  she  turned  away  from  him.  At  sight  of 
her  distress  his  passion  seemed  to  die  within 
him,  leaving  only  pity  and  tenderness  behind. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  he  said.     "I  have  frightened 


"GOOD-BY  FOR  EVERMORE"  189 

you.  I  thought  you  knew,  that  you  were  pre- 
pared for  me.  Don't  cry,  Cecilia.  I  could 
kill  myself  for  having  made  you  cry." 

She  staunched  the  tears  with  her  little  wisp 
of  handkerchief.  Her  sobbing  had  a  heart- 
broken sound.  He  stood  by  unhappily,  watch- 
ing her  while  she  struggled  to  regain  her  self- 
control. 

From  somewhere  over  between  the  darken- 
ing mountains  there  came  the  sound  of  a  steam- 
whistle,  and  Cecilia  started  and  began  to  walk 
quickly  away  from  him. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"Six  o'clock  and  the  gates  will  close  in  about 
ten  minutes.  We  shall  only  have  time  to  get 
out." 

She  pulled  her  veil  down  over  her  face  and 
hurried  on  with  a  down-bent  head. 

"I  could  get  you  out  if  necessarj^,"  he  said, 
keeping  his  place  beside  her. 

The  sun  had  dropped  behind  the  mountains 
now,  and  as  they  went  down  the  steep  way  be- 
tween the  railings  it  was  twilight. 

"Please  believe  that  I  am  awfully  sorry  I 
distressed  you,"  he  said,  in  a  constrained  v^oice. 
"You  have  forgiven  me?" 

"There  was  nothing  to  forgive,"  she  an- 
swered, with  a  sob  in  her  breath.  "Only,  you 
must  never  speak  of  it  again." 

"Never,  Cecilia?" 


190  "GOOD-BY  FOR  EVERMORE" 

There  was  blank  incredulity  in  his  voice. 

"Never.  You  must  forget  me  altogether. 
Sometime,  perhaps  when  you  are  married,  we 
may  meet  again." 

"If  it  isn't  some  nonsense  picked  out  of  a 
story-book,"  he  said,  almost  roughly;  "what  is 
'the  meaning  of  it,  Cecilia?  Is  there  any  one 
else?" 

She  could  not  say  that  there  was,  so  she  an- 
swered him  almost  with  vehemence,  because  she 
was  afraid  of  herself. 

"No,  no,  there  is  no  one  else.  But  you 
should  not  ask  me.  Indeed  you  should  not  ask 
me.  If  I  ask  you  to  go  away  and  not  speak  of 
this  again  it  is  enough." 

He  looked  at  her  in  wonder. 

"I  thought  you  were  so  gentle,  Cecilia." 

They  were  at  the  gates  by  this  time,  and  an- 
other step  brought  them  into  the  darkness  of 
the  tree-hung  road.  They  hurried  along  side 
by  side.  The  evening  had  turned  cold  now 
with  a  suggestion  of  frost. 

"Let  us  be  friends,"  he  pleaded;  "if  we  are 
not  to  be  more,  let  us  be  friends." 

She  turned  to  him  almost  eagerly. 

"Why,  we  should  always  be  friends,"  she 
said.  "You  have  been  so  kind  to  me.  You 
were  my  first  friend,  after  Betty,  at  the  House 
of  Dromore." 

"Ah,  Betty,"  he  repeated.     "Betty  is  an  un- 


"GOOD-BY  FOR  EVERMORE"  191 

rivaled  friend.  Betty  will  be  sorry  that  I  have 
failed." 

She  pushed  up  her  veil  from  her  face  and 
stared  at  him  in  consternation.  Her  face  was 
flushed  from  the  tears  and  her  eyes  shining. 

"You  did  not  tell  Betty?"  she  said,  incredu- 
lously. 

"Betty  knew.  I  had  all  her  good  wishes. 
Betty  and  I  have  been  pals  this  many  a  year." 

Cecilia  made  a  sound  like  a  groan.  She  felt 
almost  bitter  against  him.  How  he  must  have 
hurt  Betty!  Between  them  how  they  had  con- 
trived to  hurt  Betty! 

"You  must  tell  her,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"that  .  .  .  that  ...  it  was  a  mis- 
take, that  I  asked  you  not  to  speak  of  it  again, 
that  we  agreed  to  be  friends,  friends  and  noth- 
ing more." 

If  she  had  been  looking  at  him,  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face  would  have  contradicted  the  ap- 
parent resignation  of  his  words. 

"Friends  and  nothing  more,"  he  repeated. 
"Bettv  will  be  sorrv,  Cecilia.  There  never 
was  such  a  good  pal  as  Betty." 

They  had  emerged  now  on  the  winding  road 
that  encloses  the  sickle  of  the  bay.  Above  the 
bay  a  young  silver  moon  was  rising,  making 
broken  reflections  of  itself  in  the  lightly  rippled 
water.  Against  the  rosy  haze  of  the  distant 
sky  the  smoke  of  a  steamer  drifted.     Some- 


192  "GOOD-BY  FOR  EVERMORE" 

where  above  them  a  thrush  was  singing  its  au- 
tumnal song  of  a  forlorn  sweetness  so  different 
from  the  jocund  happiness  of  its  song  in  spring. 

The  evening  and  the  sea  and  the  bird's  song 
filled  Cecilia's  heart  with  a  passionate  sadness. 
Not  yet,  not  yet  while  he  walked  by  her  side 
could  she  be  forlorn  and  dreary,  as  she  would 
be  when  those  last  precious  moments  of  his 
presence  were  gone  and  he  had  left  her  for 
ever.  The  very  young  say  their  "for  evers" 
so  lightly,  and  feel  so  little  surprised  to  find 
them  so  revocable. 

Kilrush  walked  by  her  side,  talking  now 
merely  polite  commonplaces.  The  few  people 
they  met  turned  to  look  after  the  couple  with 
their  young  beauty  and  grace  and  distinction. 

"Lord  love  ye!"  said  a  cheerful  beggar,  sit- 
ting at  the  gates  of  the  Sorrento  grounds. 
*'Lord  love  ye,  give  the  poor  woman  a  copper 
for  the  sake  of  the  beautiful  young  lad}^  that 
loves  your  honor!" 

Kilrush  dropped  a  half-crown  into  the  out- 
stretched hand,  and  was  followed  by  a  flood 
of  blessings  upon  his  own  and  the  young  lady's 
future,  from  which  Cecilia  was  glad  to  hurry 
out  of  hearing.  Some  of  the  blessings  as  they 
came  floating  after  her  made  her  very  ear-tips 
rosy. 

Kilrush  smiled  as  he  heard  them. 

"So  much  for  so  little,"  he  said. 


"GOOD-BY  FOR  EVERMORE"  193 

And  now  they  had  ascended  the  hill,  and 
were  at  the  gates  of  Glan-na-Tore.  He  took 
Cecilia's  hand  in  his  and  held  it.  The  last 
pale  light  of  the  sky  was  on  her  face. 

"So  much  for  so  little,"  he  repeated.  "Per- 
haps, after  all,  some  of  her  wishes  may  come 
true,  Cecilia."  He  lifted  her  fingers  to  his 
lips. 

"We  will  hope  that  they  may  come  true," 
he  said,  and  lifted  his  hat  and  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XV 

CECILIA   LEARNS   THE   TRUTH 

To  her  dismay,  for  she  was  conscious  of  her 
recent  tears,  Cecilia  found  the  drawing-room 
occupied  by  Gran,  looking  her  stiffest  in  the 
purple  moire  antique  which  had  been  her  gown 
of  ceremony  during  all  the  days  of  her  married 
life,  her  lace  shawl,  clasped  by  a  cameo  brooch, 
and  her  bonnet  resplendent  with  purple  pan- 
sies. 

Not  often  did  Gran  don  her  war-paint  to 
visit  her  son's  house.  Usually  she  kept  it  for 
her  visits  to  the  Patrick  Graces  and  the  other 
cousins,  near  and  distant,  who  were  more  or 
less  prosperous  publicans  or  farmers  or  shop- 
keepers. 

She  looked  at  Cecilia  with  her  hard,  bright, 
dark  eyes,  which  softened  as  they  rested  on 
Cecilia's  face.  Her  cheeks  seemed  redder 
than  usual,  and  her  mouth  was  snaj^ped  a  little 
tighter,  all  of  them  signs  of  something  unusual 
in  Gran's  mood.  So  Cecilia  remembered  her 
in  a  serious  illness  of  her  childhood,  when  Gran 
had  swept  away  the  nurses  and  carried  the 
child  triumphantly  back  to  health  by  her  good 

195 


196       CECILIA  LEARNS  THE  TRUTH 

nursing,  which  allowed  of  neither  sleep  nor 
rest  for  herself.  So  Gran  had  gone  about  with 
her  eyes  bright,  her  mouth  snapped  to,  her 
cheeks  a  hard  crimson,  when  death  had  to  be 
fought  and  her  lamb's  precious  life  saved. 
The  lips  had  smiled,  the  eyes  softened  only 
when  they  rested  on  the  child. 

Cecilia  was  not  afraid  of  Gran  in  her  most 
formidable  moods.  At  least  she  had  never 
been  afraid  of  her  hitherto.  Now,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  Ceciha  had  a  secret  to  guard. 
Her  eyes  fell  before  the  interrogation  in 
Gran's.  The  color  came  hotly  to  her  cheeks 
and  then  ebbed  away,  leaving  her  paler  than 
before.  She  turned  her  face  away  from  Gran 
and  stood  with  one  foot  on  the  fender,  one  hand 
fiddling  nervously  with  the  ornaments  of  the 
mantelpiece.  The  oblong  gilt-framed  mirror 
revealed  herself  to  her  guilty  glance.  Obvi- 
ously she  had  been  crying. 

"Cecilia  hasn't  been  gallivanting  by  her- 
self?" said  Gran,  in  a  severe  voice  to  Ciss. 
"  'Tis  no  hour  for  a  child  like  her  to  be  out 
alone  round  these  lonesome  roads." 

Her  eye  was  coldly  accusing  as  it  fell  on 
Ciss.  Gran's  ideas  in  regard  to  etiquette  were 
as  severe  as  Lady  Dromore's  own,  widely  dif- 
ferent as  their  bringing-up  and  environment 
had  been. 

"Oh  no,"  said  Ciss,  with  one  of  her  hght 


CECILIA  LEARNS  THE  TRUTH       197 

laughs.  "I  sent  a  friend  after  Cecilia.  I 
guessed  he  would  find  her  at  the  Druid's  Seat. 
Cecilia  is  so  fond  of  mooning  about  there. 
Lord  Kilrush  found  you,  Ceciha?" 

"Yes,  he  found  me,"  Cecilia  answered,  con- 
scious of  Gran's  scrutiny  and  turning  a  more 
unhappy  red.  "He  walked  back  with  me  to 
the  gate." 

"Why  didn't  you  bring  him  in  and  introduce 
him  to  Gran?"  Ciss  asked.  "He  is  a  charming 
fellow,  Cecilia.  I  thought  him  very  pleasant 
before,  but  he  improves  on  acquaintance.  I 
meant  to  have  asked  him  to  stay  for  dinner." 

"Who  is  this  young  man  that  squires  my 
granddaughter  about  in  the  darkness  of  the 
night?"  Gran  asked  sternly. 

Again  Ciss  laughed. 

"Tell  Gran  all  about  Lord  Kilrush,  Ceciha," 
she  said.  "I  am  going  out.  I've  been  shut  up 
all  day.  I  shall  walk  down  to  Kingstown, 
meet  your  father  at  the  6.4.5,  and  walk  home 
with  him.  Gran  says  she  won't  stay  for  din- 
ner. Persuade  her  to,  and  to  stay  for  the 
night.  We  can  easily  telegrapli  to  Bridget 
that  she's  not  going  back  to-night." 

Ciss  went  out  of  the  room,  and  they  heard 
her  singing  as  slie  went  up  the  stairs. 

"Your  mother  is  in  high  good-himior,"  Gran 
said.  "I  don't  approve  of  her  goin'  down  to 
Kingstown  by  herself.     Some  one  miglit  speak 


198       CECILIA  LEARNS  THE  TRUTH 

to  her  and  frighten  her.  She  looks  too  young 
and  pretty  to  be  wanderin'  about  by  herself. 
I  wonder  your  father  allows  it.  It  isn't  my 
idea  of  what's  right,  but  then  I'm  only  a  poor, 
plain  old  woman." 

Ciss  ran  down  the  stairs  as  lightly  as  a  girl, 
called  to  little  Beau,  and  they  heard  the  door 
close  behind  her  as  she  went  out. 

Gran  looked  at  her  watch. 

"I  sha'n't  stay  for  dinner,"  she  said,  "and  I 
sha'n't  stay  for  the  night.  I'm  too  old  to  sleep 
out  of  my  own  house.  I  told  the  cabman  who 
brought  me  here  to  call  for  me  again.  And 
the  pony  and  trap  will  meet  me  at  Westland 
Row.  And  now,  Cecilia  child,  take  off  your 
hat  and  sit  down  beside  me.  I  want  to  see 
how  you  are  lookin'  and  hear  what  you've  been 
doin'.  It's  been  lonely  at  the  Bawn  Farm 
without  you,  child!  It's  the  first  summer  for 
long  that  you  haven't  paid  your  old  Granny  a 
visit." 

Cecilia  did  as  she  was  bidden,  and  havins" 
laid  her  outdoor  things  on  a  distant  sofa  she 
came  back  and  sat  down  on  a  low  stool  facing 
her  grandmother.  She  felt  oddly  shy  and 
nervous  of  Gran's  questions.  Why  had 
mamma  gone  out  and  left  her  to  Gran?  The 
old,  hard,  bright  eyes  across  the  intervening 
space  seemed  to  pierce  her  through,  discover- 
ing her  secrets. 


CECILIA  LEARNS  THE  TRUTH       199 

"H'm!"  said  Gran,  grimly,  after  a  few  sec- 
onds of  scrutiny,  beneath  which  Ceciha  sat  un- 
happily. "You're  thinner,  Cecilia,  and  there's 
something  in  your  face  wasn't  there  when  you 
went  away.  What  have  they  been  doin'  to 
you,  my  lamb?" 

"Nothing,  Gran."  Cecilia  blinked  nerv- 
ously under  the  steady  gaze.  "They  were 
kindness  itself.  Nothing  could  exceed  their 
goodness." 

"Ay,  ay,  I  know  all  that!"  The  old  voice 
was  bitter  and  dissatisfied.  "I  know  the 
ways  of  such  as  them.  'Tis  easy  for  them  to 
get  round  an  innocent  child  like  you  and  win 
your  heart  only  to  break  it  with  coldness  and 
neglect.  'Twas  myself  was  always  against  the 
visit.  Why  should  my  son's  child  go  where  her 
father  wouldn't  be  made  welcome?  No,  nor 
her  mother  either,  for  the  matter  of  that." 

"Gran!"  Cecilia  lifted  her  head  proudly. 
"You  don't  know  my  cousins.  Every  one 
spoke  with  such  love  of  mamma,  and  .  .  . 
and  .  .  ."  she  was  remembering  that  very 
little  had  been  said  about  papa,  "and  .  .  . 
Lady  Dromore  spoke  so  kindly  of  papa.  I 
am  quite,  quite  sure  you  are  mistaken." 

"Oh,  ay,  he  served  her  ladyship's  turn. 
But  he  was  only  the  dirt  under  her  feet  after 
all.  Your  mother's  different,  to  be  sure,  be- 
cause she  was  one  of  themselves,  and  so  would 


200       CECILIA  LEARNS  THE  TRUTH 

you  be,  I  dare  say,  if  so  be  it  was  that  you  was 
content  to  give  up  your  blood-relations,  your 
father  that  has  slaved  for  you  and  your  mother, 
and  is  slavin'  now.  Your  father  had  the 
greatest  love  for  your  mother  that  I  ever  knew 
a  man  to  have  for  a  woman ;  and  for  all  I  know, 
and  he  knows,  he  doesn't  rightly  get  a  return. 
Ay,  and  your  old  Gran,  and  decent  people  like 
the  Patrick  Graces  that  are  a  credit  to  any  one. 
I  well  remember  her  ladyship's  face  when  Rosy 
Grace  had  no  more  sense  than  to  be  askin'  her 
to  go  to  one  of  her  At  Homes.  Rosy  was  al- 
ways up  to  some  nonsense  or  another.  I  can 
see  the  two  of  their  faces  now  close  together." 

The  old  woman  smiled  to  herself  with  an 
acrid  humor;  but  Cecilia  was  beyond  seeing 
the  humor  of  JNIrs.  Patrick's  juxtaposition 
with  Lady  Dromore. 

"You're  saying  a  great  many  things  I  don't 
understand,  Gran,"  she  said,  pitifully.  "I  wish 
you'd  tell  me  Avhat  you  mean.  There  was  a 
terrible  old  woman  at  the  doctor's  house  in 
Drumree,  where  I  was  brought  in  the  day  I 
sprained  my  ankle.  She  said  several  strange 
things  I  did  not  understand.  I  thought  she 
was  mad,  or  perhaps  had  been  drinking.  She 
said  that  she  knew  papa  before  he  married 
mamma  when  he  was  locum  tenens — she  called 
it  'local  demon' — to  Dr.  Brady  who  had  been 
in  Knocklynn." 


CECILIA  LEARNS  THE  TRUTH       201 

"I  remember  as  well  as  though  it  was  yes- 
terday, though  it  is  more  than  twenty  years  ago 
— the  day  your  father  had  the  letter  from  Dr. 
Brady,  engagin'  him.  It  might  ha'  been  as 
well  he'd  never  gone.  Not  that  I've  a  word  to 
say  against  your  sweet,  pretty  mother.  And 
as  for  him,  if  it  was  to  be  done  over  again  he'd 
do  it,  and  take  the  risks  if  they  was  ten  thousand 
times  as  great.  I  wasn't  brought  up  to  think 
much  o'  that  kind  of  love.  The  old  people  in 
my  times  said  it  was  all  nonsense.  I  married 
your  grandfather  when  he  was  sixty  and  I  was 
twenty ;  and  it  worked  better  than  many  a  love- 
match  I've  seen  since  I  came  to  Dublin.  It 
was  a  queer  thing  that  our  son  should  have 
gone  mad  for  love,  for  a  madness  it  was.  And 
sure,  God  help  him,  he  doesn't  know  rightly  to 
this  day  whether  he  has  her  heart  or  not." 

Cecilia  listened  to  her  in  a  tortured  patience. 

"You  are  hurting  me,  Gran,"  she  said. 
"What  are  all  these  mysteries?  I  have  a  right 
to  know — haven't  I  ?  I  am  no  longer  a  school- 
girl. Tell  me  how  it  came  that  papa  and 
mamma  married." 

"You've  a  right  to  know  from  the  beginnin'. 
When  you  know  you  can  choose  between  us 
and  them.  Why  Lord  Dromore's  cousin  mar- 
ried the  son  of  Tom  Grace  that  had  a  little 
farm,  and  morebetoken  kept  the  Red  Cow  pub- 
lic-house at  Cross-in-Hand?    I  gave  it  up  when 


202       CECILIA  LEARNS  THE  TRUTH 

your  grandfather  died.  It  was  no  employ- 
ment for  women.  Well,  dearie — put  j'^our 
mind  back  a  bit.  Did  you  ever  notice  anything 
about  your  mamma?  That  she  wasn't  quite 
like  other  people?  More  like  a  big  child,  the 
poor  innocent  lamb?" 

Cecilia  nodded. 

"Yes,  I  know.  She  seems  different  now,  as 
though  she  were  growing  up." 

"That's  just  it,  jewel."  The  old  woman's 
voice  had  an  exquisite  tenderness.  "I  think  'tis 
the  growin'-up  your  father's  frightened  of. 
Not  that  he's  said  a  word  about  it  to  me.  He's 
the  silentest  man  alive  about  his  wife.  But  I 
can  see  the  terror  of  it  in  his  face.  Don't  I 
know  the  child  I  bore?  Well,  it  was  like  this, 
my  pet.  Your  poor  mamma  was  a  little  queer 
in  the  head  when  your  father  married  her. 
She'd  had  a  great  trouble.  She  was  engaged 
to  be  married  to  some  fine  gentleman,  and  he 
was  away  on  his  travels,  and  a  report  came  that 
he'd  been  killed  and  eaten  by  savages.  She 
heard  it  of  a  sudden,  and  her  poor  head  went. 
And  then,  as  misfortune  would  have  it,  your 
father  came  into  the  neighborhood  and  she 
took  a  fancy  that  he  was  the  one  she  lost. 
And  the  poor  child  slipped  away  from  them 
all  one  stormy  night  and  came  knockin'  at  his 
window,  and  he  took  her  in  like  a  perished  bird. 
She  was  half-drownded,  so  she  was,  and  fright- 


CECILIA  LEARNS  THE  TRUTH       203 

ened  out  of  her  life  by  the  storm.  He  gave  her 
back  to  them  as  soon  as  ever  he  could ;  but  they 
were  frightened  out  of  their  lives  that  the  peo- 
ple might  talk" — the  old  woman  blushed  as  she 
said  it,  and  looked  away  from  her  grandchild's 
agitated  face — "there's  people  that  might  talk 
- — the  world's  tliat  wicked — about  even  an  in- 
nocent lamb  like  your  mother.  And  so,  jewel 
dear,  and  there  she  was  callin'  to  your  father 
by  the  name  of  the  gentleman  she  was  to  have 
married,  and  spendin'  fondness  on  him  when- 
ever she  caught  a  sight  of  him  and  frettin'  her 
hfe  out  when  he  left  her.  And  he'd  been  mad 
in  love  with  her  from  the  first  day  he  seen  her 
saying  her  prayers  in  the  chapel.  So  the  poor 
boy  saw  a  way  out  of  it  to  save  her  from  the 
asylum  that  he  should  marrv  her;  and  he  up 
and  spoke  to  them  about  it.  The  lord 
wouldn't  listen  to  it  at  first,  but  her  ladyship 
was  in  his  favor.  And  so  they  were  married, 
the  small  publican's  son  and  Lord  Dromore's 
cousin,  and  the  Dromores  are  terrible  proud 
and  her  ladyship  the  proudest  of  all." 

She  paused  for  breath,  and  Cecilia  broke  in 
with  an  impassioned  word. 

"I  love  papa  for  it,"  she  said.  "Oh,  I  love 
him  for  it.  Poor  mamma,  how  good  it  was 
that  she  should  have  won  such  a  wonderful 
love!" 

"Ah,  that's  right,  my  dearie,  that's   right. 


204^       CECILIA  LEARNS  THE  TRUTH 

You'll  never  listen  to  them  that  'ud  say  that 
there  was  a  wrong  to  you  in  letting  you  be 
born  ?  There's  many  a  one  might  say  it.  But 
you  won't  listen  to  them?" 

"Oh,  no,  I  sha'n't  Ksten  to  them." 

Cecilia  was  comprehending  vaguely.  To  be 
sure  a  girl  whose  mother  was  mad  might. 
.  .  .  Why,  she  had  no  right  to  marry  any 
one. 

She  felt  a  sudden  ache  of  desire  that  like 
the  dove  she  might  flee  away  and  be  at  rest. 
There  was  the  convent  amid  its  green  gardens, 
and  the  quiet  faces  of  the  nuns,  and  the  one  nun 
to  whom  she  was  deeply  attached,  Mother 
Margaret  of  the  deep  brown  eyes  and  the  pale 
face  made  up  of  spirit  and  intellect.  If  papa 
and  mamma  could  only  do  without  her!  She 
was  an  only  child;  and  ^lother  Margaret  had 
said,  when  the  other  nuns  had  urged  that  she 
should  give  her  voice  to  God,  that  God  did  not 
ask  for  only  daughters.  Still,  paj)a  and 
mamma  were  so  much  to  each  other — at  least, 
mamma  was  so  much  to  papa.  Ciss  had  al- 
ways had  a  certain  aloofness  from  husband  and 
child. 

The  thought  brought  her  back  to  something 
Gran  had  said.  What  was  it  about  papa  not 
being  sure  if  he  had  mamma's  heart  after  all? 

Gran's  next  words  enlightened  her. 

"And  the  worst  of  it,  dearie,  was  that  they 


CECILIA  LEARNS  THE  TRUTH       205 

were  hardlj^  man  and  wife  before  the  gentle- 
man came  back  that  your  mamma  was  prom- 
ised to,  came  back  ahve  and  well.  Those 
heathen  blacks  had  only  held  him  a  prisoner, 
and  he  had  escaped  after  all.  A  sorry  home- 
comin'  it  was  for  him.  I've  heard  tell  that  he 
was  like  a  madman  himself  with  the  despair  of 
it.  But  sure  what  could  any  one  do?  The 
knot  was  tied  past  untyin'.  The  first  gray 
came  into  your  father's  hair  that  year.  If  he 
could  have  given  her  back  he  would.  That 
was  his  way  of  love.  And  he  used  to  think 
he'd  cheated  the  poor  lamb  by  reason  of  her 
innocence.  It  was  a  terrible  heartbreak  to 
him." 

Cecilia  understood.  Of  course  the  lover 
who  had  come  back  was  Sir  Paul  Chadwick. 
She  had  a  momentary  vision  of  his  distin- 
guished  person  beside  her  father's.  Papa  al- 
ways looked  tired  and  dusty  and  somewhat 
heavily  sad. 

"And  what  did  mamma  say  when  she 
knew?" 

"Why,  she  never  knew,  dearie.  What  was 
the  good  of  bringin'  it  all  up  again?  She  was 
as  happy  as  the  day  was  long.  She  never 
seemed  to  remember  the  old  life  at  all,  except 
when  her  ladyship  used  to  visit  her,  and  then 
she  was  upset  and  strange  for  days  after. 
That's  what  made  me  give  her  ladyship  the 


206       CECILIA  LEARNS  THE  TRUTH 

hint  to  stay  away.     It  was  only  upsettin'  her." 

"Oh!  And  mamma  never  knew  that  her 
old  lover  came  back?" 

"No  one  ever  told  her.  You've  seen  the 
change  in  her,  Cecilia.  It  was  what  the  doc- 
tors said  that  with  peace  and  a  happy  life  she 
might  come  right  in  time.  What's  the  use  of 
tellin'  her  now?  'Tis  over  and  done  with 
twenty  years  ago,  and  she's  never  wanted  any 
one  but  your  father.     .     .     ." 

"She  never  would  want  any  one,"  Cecilia 
broke  in  eagerly. 

Gran  narrowed  her  old  eyes  till  they  were 
no  more  than  a  gleaming  line  between  the  yel- 
low lids. 

"That's  as  may  be,  dearie;  that's  as  may  be. 
I  believe  in  lettin'  well  alone.  I  was  against 
you  goin'  there  because  it  would  rake  it  all  up 
again.  You  won't  want  to  go  back  to  them, 
now  you  know  the  truth?" 

"I  shall  never  want  to  go  back  to  them,"  said 
Cecilia,  with  a  wail  in  her  voice. 

Gran  nodded  her  head  triumphantly. 

"Ah,  that's  right,"  she  said,  "that's  right. 
You're  your  father's  child  as  well  as  your 
mother's.  And  listen,  dear  lamb — by  and  by 
— there's  a  good  and  clever  lad  that  wants  to 
marry  you — ^if  you  could  think  of  him.  He's 
very  well  thought  of.  There's  some  that  says 
they  don't  know  where  he  mightn't  end." 


CECILIA  LEARNS  THE  TRUTH       207 

"Oh  no,  no!"  said  Cecilia,  with  a  shudder. 
"Not  Bernard  Grace.  I'd  rather  die  than 
marry  Bernard  Grace.  I'd  rather  die  than  let 
him  touch  me." 

"Hoity  toity!"  said  Gran,  with  an  air  of 
offense.  "I  don't  like  such  notions,  Cecilia,  I 
really  don't.  A  handsome  fellow  like  Ber- 
nard, with  all  the  girls  mad  ahout  him!  Ber- 
nard would  never  be  the  one  to  cast  anything 
in  3'our  teeth  or  to  think  the  worse  of  you  be- 
cause vour  mother  used  to  be  a  bit  strange." 

She  tied  her  bonnet-strings  with  hands  that 
trembled  with  anger.  Her  cab  came  up  the 
little  drive  and  stopped  with  a  rattle  at  the 
door. 

"Good-by,  Cecilia,"  she  said,  "good-by — 
may  the  Lord  give  you  better  sense!" 

Then  something  in  Cecilia's  face  melted  her 
heart. 

"Never  mind,  dear  lamb,  never  mind;  you're 
over-young,"  she  said.  "Over-young  to  be 
talking  about  marriage  this  many  a  day. 
There,  Cecilia,  there,  your  old  Gran's  not 
angry  with  you." 

So  they  parted  on  the  note  of  reconciliation. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A   BRIDE   FROM    THE   SEA 

After  that  interview  with  Gran,  Cecilia 
took  to  watching  papa's  face  surreptitiously. 
She  saw  how  sharpened  it  had  become  with 
care  and  anxiety.  During  the  years  that  had 
elapsed  since  his  marriage,  suffering,  like  a 
sculptor,  had  been  at  work  on  JNIaurice  Grace's 
face,  remodeling  it,  altering  its  humble 
destiny  to  something  of  dignity  and  even 
power.  It  had  been  a  lumpish,  insignificant 
face  even  to  the  comprehending  before  he  had 
married  Cecily  Shannon.  Now  at  forty-eight 
years  of  age  he  was  certainly  not  insignificant. 

What  a  grief,  Cecilia  thought  to  herself, 
what  a  grief!  What  a  harassing  care!  To 
have  held  his  wife's  love  all  these  years,  but 
as  proxjT-  for  another  man,  dreading,  as  he 
might  well  dread,  that  she  might  ever  come 
face  to  face  with  that  other. 

One  day  he  surprised  Cecilia  at  her  scrutiny. 
He  had  taken  an  afternoon  off  work  and 
Cecilia  and  he  had  gone  down  to  Bray.  Ciss 
had  refused  to  accompany  them.  There  was  a 
great  violinist  performing  that  afternoon  at  a 

209 


210  A  BRIDE  FROM  THE  SEA 

concert,  and  Ciss  was  determined  to  hear  him. 
She  had  bidden  them  go  and  enjoy  themselves 
without  her,  she  would  be  happy  in  her  own 
way. 

It  was  one  of  the  things  of  which  her  hus- 
band had  no  understanding,  the  love  of  music 
which  was  so  strong  in  Ciss,  which  she  had 
transmitted  to  her  daughter.  He  had  accom- 
panied her  to  concerts  many  times  when  he 
would  rather  have  been  at  home  resting  or 
reading,  and  had  not  complained.  But  he  had 
fallen  fast  asleep  one  night  at  a  Wagner  con- 
cert, and  after  that  Ciss  had  left  him  at  home, 
refusing  his  offers  to  escort  her  with  her  light 
laugh.  Despite  his  love  of  being  at  his  wife's 
side,  Maurice  Grace  breathed  more  freely 
when  he  was  permitted  to  stay  at  home  in 
peace,  instead  of  being  called  on  to  delight  in 
some  babel  of  sounds  which  seemed  to  enrap- 
tuje  Ciss,  but  had  no  meaning  for  him. 

They  were  out  on  the  Head  with  the  sky 
above  them,  and  the  purple  heather  round 
about  them.  Below  was  the  hoarse  sound  of 
the  sea  in  its  advance  and  withdrawal,  sapping 
and  mining  eternally  at  the  great  face  of  the 
Head.  Gulls  swooped  and  screamed  about 
them,  overhead  a  lark  hung  poised  in  mid-air, 
his  song  and  he  ascending  in  a  quiet  rap- 
ture. 

It  was  such  a  surcease  from  daily  work  as 


A  BRIDE  FROM  THE  SEA  211 

Maurice  Grace  loved.  It  was  so  good  to  get 
away  from  diseased  bodies,  too  often  the  ex- 
pression of  sick  souls,  for  once  in  a  way,  and 
to  lie  quiet,  with  one  of  the  two  he  loved  best, 
at  the  breast  of  Nature.  He  drank  deep 
draughts  of  the  beauty  and  peace,  lying  at 
full  length  on  the  heather,  his  hands  clasped 
beneath  his  head,  the  peak  of  his  soft  cap 
pulled  over  his  eyes.  There  was  not  a  human 
creature  within  sight  or  hearing. 

"Cecilia,"  he  asked  suddenly,  "why  have  you 
taken  to  watching  me  of  late?  I  have  sur- 
prised you  several  times,  and  you  have  always 
been  quick  to  look  away." 

"Have  I  been  watching  you?"  she  stam- 
mered. He  had  raised  himself  on  his  elbow 
as  he  asked  the  question,  and  was  looking  her 
in  the  eyes.  It  was  impossible  for  her  to  pre- 
varicate or  to  conceal  her  embarrassment. 

"Yes,  you  have  taken  to  watching  me. 
jNIore,  Cecilia,  since  you  have  been  away  from 
us,  even  more  since  you  have  come  back,  I  see 
a  change  in  you."  He  sighed  quietly  to  him- 
self. "It  is  inevitable,  I  suppose,"  he  went 
on,  "that  our  children  should  change,  but  I 
wish  you  could  have  kept  your  childhood  a 
little  longer.     What  is  it,  Cecilia?" 

"It  is  only  that" — it  was  easier  for  Cecilia 
to  reveal  one  side  of  her  secret  thoughts  than 
the  other — "it  is  only  that — Gran  told  me  the 


212  A  BRIDE  FROM  THE  SEA 

other  night  the  story  of  how  you  and  mamma 
came  to  marry." 

"Ah,  she  told  you  that!  She  might  have 
left  it  a  little  longer.  How  much  did  she  tell 
you?" 

Cecilia  blushed.  It  seemed  odd  to  talk  to 
papa  about  such  things. 

"She  told  me  how  much  j^ou  loved  mamma 
from  the  beginning,  when  you  saw  her  at 
church,  and  of  mamma's  delusion  that  you 
were  her  dead  lover,  and  of  how  she  came  to 
you,  and  how  you  married  her  to  save  her  from 
perhaps  being  shut  away  in  an  asylum." 

"Ah,  she  told  you  everything." 

He  lay  back  again  on  the  heather  and  cov- 
ered his  eyes. 

"Then  there  is  nothing  left  for  me  to  tell 
you,"  he  said,  after  a  time.  "Only,  that  if 
it  were  to  do  over  again  I  would  do  it.  It 
has  been  worth  it  all — though  for  years — you 
will  understand  this  better  one  day  than  you 
do  now — it  was  hard.  It  was  like  the  man  in 
the  story  who  married  the  bride  from  the  sea. 
My  bride  was  always  listening  to  the  echoes 
from  some  other  world  in  her  own  heart.  And 
I  had  my  waj^  to  make.  It  was  a  stiff,  upward 
climb.  Child,  I  have  never  spoken  of  these 
things  except  to  God.  It  was  a  stiff  climb — 
lack  of  earlj^  education,  of  social  training,  of 
looks,  of  rank,  told  against  me  as  well  as  a 


A  BRIDE  FROM  THE  SEA  213 

natural  slowness  of  mind.  If  I  have  suc- 
ceeded in  spite  of  it  all  it  was  due  to  j^our 
mother.  ]My  love  for  her  was  my  spur.  Yet 
it  was  hard,  at  times,  for  a  doctor  climbing 
painfully  and  slowly,  with  a  w^ife  from  the  sea 
who  listened  to  the  voices  of  another  world." 

Cecilia  bent  down  and  kissed  one  of  the  gray 
locks  that  showed  under  her  father's  cap. 

*'I  am  sure  it  w^as  hard,"  she  said;  "but  it 
was  wonderful.  I  am  so  proud  to  have  a 
father  like  you,  papa." 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her. 

"So,  Cecilia,"  he  said  softly.  "Yet  I  have 
had  my  doubts  of  the  fairness  to  you.  It  is 
lonely  for  a  child  to  have  had  a  mother  from 
the  sea." 

"I  wouldn't  cliange  mamma  any  more  than 
you  would.  She  has  always  been  so  sweet, 
always,  always.  And  of  late  she  has  been  com- 
ing back  to  us.  Haven't  you  seen  it,  papa? 
She  has  become  more  like  other  people.  Don't 
you  see,  papa,  that  she  is  different,  more 
human?" 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "but  supposing  that  that 
means  for  you  and  me,  Cecilia,  that  she  will 
hear  the  call  of  her  kin  more  plainly?  My 
poor  Ciss,  she  has  been  living  in  an  alien  world 
indeed  for  many  a  year.  She  has  been  won- 
derfully sweet.  When  was  she  ever  anything 
but  exquisitely  sweet?     It  was  a  queer  world 


214  A  BRIDE  FROM  THE  SEA 

in  which  she  dechned  from  Lady  Dromore  to 
Mrs.  Patrick  Grace.  And  the  patients !  The 
patients  would  call  on  your  mother.  I  had  a 
very  middle-class  practice.  The  wives  and 
daughters  of  all  the  shopkeepers  about  West- 
land  Row  called  on  my  wife.  My  poor  Ciss! 
I  believe  she  even  tried  to  wrestle  with  the 
housekeeping  dilHculty ;  but  it  brought  on  such 
headaches  that  I  had  to  forbid  it.  We  were 
at  the  mercy  of  one  slattern  after  another. 
Occasionally  your  grandmother  swept  down 
on  us  and  cleared  the  reigning  slattern  out. 
Then  awful  things  came  to  light  in  the  kitchen 
regions.  I  wonder  you  ever  grew  up,  Cecilia. 
I  wonder  I  didn't  die  of  Dublin  typhoid.  One 
slattern  succeeded  another.  We  were  always 
in  hot  water.  And  my  poor  Ciss  looking  like 
an  angel  through  it  all!" 

He  laughed  ruefully.  Cecilia  remembered 
something  of  the  misery  of  those  early  days, 
when  Nannie  D'Arcy  kept  the  nursery  in  a 
state  of  siege  against  the  beleaguering  kitchen, 
and  received  all  her  supplies  for  her  child  from 
outside,  cooking  them  with  her  own  hands — the 
squalid  days  of  dirt  and  discomfort  before  they 
went  to  live  at  the  White  Cottage,  and 
Nannie's  sister  Kate,  newly  become  a  widow, 
was  installed  as  cook  and  housekeeper. 

"Poor  papa!"  she  said  softly,  kissing  again 
the  gray  lock. 


A  BRIDE  FROM  THE  SEA  215 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  so  bad,"  he  said  dreamily. 
"There  was  always  your  mother.  Have  I 
been  complaining?  Why,  I  wouldn't  change 
my  lot  for  any  man's,  having  your  mother,  even 
by  the  tenure  by  which  I  held  her." 

"Papa,"  said  Ceciha,  suddenly,  "after  all 
those  years — don't  you  think  mamma  no  longer 
hears  the  voices,  or  at  least  that  they  could  not 
draw  her  away  from  us?  I  have  been  watch- 
ing her,  and  she  seems  to  me  a  happy  woman. 
Surely  you  have  established  yourself  in  all 
those  years?" 

He  turned  over  on  his  side  with  a  sigh.  It 
was  good  to  speak  of  his  troubles  after  keep- 
ing them  so  long  locked  up  in  his  breast;  and 
to  so  understanding  a  listener.  How  fast 
Cecilia  had  been  growing!  Wonderful,  won- 
derful! And  only  the  other  day  she  had  been 
a  child. 

"You  know,  Cecilia,"  he  said,  "that  her 
lover  came  back?" 

"Yes,  I  know  that." 

"He  has  never  married — for  her  sake,  I  be- 
lieve. He  was  heart-broken  at  his  loss  of  her. 
My  poor  Ciss— he  was  gay,  young,  handsome, 
distinguished,  rich — in  everything  my  antithe- 
sis. He  is  handsome  and  distinguished-look- 
ing still.     What  a  contrast!" 

Cecilia  glanced  at  her  father.  He  had  put 
on  a  shabby,  comfortable  suit  of  clothes  for 


216  A  BRIDE  FROM  THE  SEA 

greater  ease.  He  looked  gray  and  dusty  and 
tired.  She  had  a  memory  of  another  man  of 
his  age,  his  alert,  quick  glances,  his  fine  dis- 
tinguished figure  and  bearing,  his  air  of  fine 
gentleman  that  carried  off  the  roughest  clothes. 

"Papa,"  she  said,  "I  know  Sir  Paul  Chad- 
wick.  When  Gran  told  me  the  stoiy,  I  re- 
membered things  that  I  had  heard  and  knew 
that  it  was  he  to  whom  mamma  was  engaged. 
I  know  him — and  yet,  papa,  I  would" — she 
stopped,  suddenly  conscious  of  her  own  dar- 
ing; then  went  on  again — "I  would  put  the 
matter  to  the  test.  I  have  no  doubt  at  all  in 
my  own  mind  of  mamma.  Let  her  and  Sir 
Paul  Chadwick  come  face  to  face  and  set  your 
mind  at  rest  for  ever." 

He  sat  bolt  ujDright,  startled  by  the  sugges- 
tion. 

"You  advise  heroic  measures,  Cecilia,"  he 
said. 

"Because  the  doubt  has  been  fretting  you 
all  those  years.  I  believe  you  have  suffered 
uselessly." 

"That  may  be  so,"  he  responded  slowly. 
*'There  have  been  times  indeed  when  the  doubt 
has  so  exhausted  my  strength  to  bear  it  that 
I  would  have  almost  welcomed  the  certainty 
that  I  was  a  usurper  in  your  mother's  heart. 
Strange  that  a  child  like  you  should  give  me 


A  BRIDE  FROM  THE  SEA  21 


r' 


such  counsel.  I  have  been  a  coward  all  those 
years." 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  think  not.  You  had  to 
wait  for  mamma  to  be  well  again,  so  that  she 
would  understand.  And  the  opportunity  is 
likely  to  come,  for  Sir  Paul  Chadwick  spoke 
of  seeing  me  when  he  came  to  Dublin.  He 
has  no  doubts,  apparently." 

She  blushed,  remembering  something  else, 
but  her  father  was  not  looking  at  her.  She 
sighed  because  she  feared  what  Sir  Paul  Chad- 
wick might  have  to  say. 

"I  suppose  no  one  would  in  their  seven 
senses,  after  twenty  years.  When  things 
matter   so   much    one   is   not   in    one's    seven 


senses." 


A  couple  of  tourists  with  knapsacks  on  their 
backs  came  up  the  cliff-path,  and  flung  them- 
selves on  the  heather  a  few  yards  away.  Their 
solitude  was  over. 

Father  and  daughter  got  up  half-reluc- 
tantly  and  went  down  the  hill  to  Bray.  They 
walked  along  the  Esplanade  to  the  Inter- 
national Hotel  for  tea.  It  was  served  to  them 
in  the  lounge,  which  was  dim  after  the  bright 
light  on  the  sea  outside. 

While  tliey  sat  waiting  for  it,  talking  quietly, 
a  tall  man  who  had  been  writing  at  a  table 
with  his  back  to  them  stood  up  and  came  to- 


218  A  BRIDE  FROM  THE  SEA 

wards  their  corner,  wearing  an  air  of  pleased 
recognition. 

"It  is  Miss  Grace— Cecilia!"  he  said.  "I 
thought  I  recognized  the  voice." 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  steadily 
for  an  instant:  it  might  be  with  a  look  as 
though  they  measured  swords. 

The  coincidence  of  the  meeting  was  over- 
whelming. With  the  easy  readiness  of  the 
young  and  devout  to  believe  in  the  divine  inter- 
position in  our  affairs,  Cecilia  said  to  herself 
that  God  had  brought  them  together. 

"My  father.  Sir  Paul  Chadwick,"  she  said, 
introducing  the  two  men. 

"How  fortunate  I  am  to  meet  you,"  Sir  Paul 
said,  in  his  musical,  well-bred  voice.  "I  was 
in  fact,  coming  to  see  you  this  afternoon. 
Lady  Dromore  gave  me  your  address.  I  am 
here  for  a  few  days." 

He  smiled  at  Maurice  Grace.  In  his  mind 
plainly  there  was  no  feeling  about  the  past, 
the  jealousy  and  resentment  of  old  had 
plainly  disappeared  long  ago,  and  now  he 
looked  at  the  old  rival  with  friendly  interest 
because  he  was  Cecilia's  father. 

"And  Mrs.  Grace?"  he  said.  "I  hope  she 
is  quite  well?" 

Cecilia  could  not  forbear  a  quick  glance  at 
her  father.  Surely  he  would  see  now  what  a 
phantom  fear  he  had  harbored  all  those  years. 


A  BRIDE  FROM  THE  SEA  219 

Lady  Dromore  had  sent  Sir  Paul  Chadwick, 
despite  the  old  love-affair  between  him  and 
Ciss:  he  himself  was  plainly  oppressed  by  no 
shadow  of  the  past.  Would  not  her  father  see 
it  in  the  same  way?  For  the  moment  she  for- 
got  that  she  might  have  to  say  no  to  Sir  Paul 
Chadwick,  whose  wooing  would  be  almost  as 
unwelcome  as  Bernard  Grace's,  because  she 
loved  another  man. 

Maurice  Grace  had  an  oddly  tense,  oddly 
rigid  look.  He  was  glad  as  one  is  when  a 
gi'eat  ordeal,  long  foreseen,  has  to  be  met  at 
last,  a  fiery  trial  to  be  encountered.  Since  it 
must  come  it  is  well  that  it  has  come,  without 
the  long,  weary  climbing  the  hill  towards  it 
any  more. 

"My  wife  is  quite  well,  thank  you,"  he  said. 
"Will  you  not  join  us  at  tea?  Afterwards  we 
shall  be  returning  home,  and  it  will  be  a  pleas- 
ure if  you  will  come  with  us.  We  had  planned 
to  take  the  train  to  Killiney  and  walk." 

"Ah,  5^es,  that  will  be  excellent,"  Sir  Paul 
assented,  sitting  down  at  the  little  table. 
"Only  you  must  be  my  guests  for  tea.  I  am 
staying  in  the  hotel." 

The  waiter  answered  his  summons  obsequi- 
ously. He  had  been  in  no  hurry  to  wait  upon 
Maurice  Grace  and  Cecilia. 

While  he  gave  his  orders,  INIaurice  Grace 
sat  and  stared,  half  without  knowing  it,  at  a 


220  A  BRIDE  FROM  THE  SEA 

mirror  on  the  opposite  wall.  It  reflected  their 
group  at  the  little  table.  He  saw  himself  and 
his  rival  contrasted,  painfully,  pitifully. 
How  would  Ciss  see  it?  In  an  hour  or  so  at 
most  the  moment  dreaded  all  those  years  would 
have  come.  He  would  see  Ciss's  thoughts  in 
her  candid  face.  Would  her  soul,  newly 
awake  after  those  more  than  twenty  years,  go 
back  to  the  point  at  which  it  had  passed  into 
slumber?  Or  would  the  kindness,  the  care, 
the  tender  associations  of  the  twenty  dreaming 
years  plead  his  cause? 

He  stood  up  and  moved  to  the  other  side 
of  the  table,  where  he  could  not  see  the  mirror. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   MOMENT   COMES   AND    PASSES 

It  was  a  jarring  incident  for  them  all  to 
find  Bernard  Grace  seated  in  Ciss's  little  white 
drawing-room,  w^earing  a  four-square  air  as 
though  he  did  not  mean  to  leave  it. 

Ciss  might  come  in  at  any  moment.  Her 
train  already  was  due.  Her  husband  had  a 
thought  of  going  to  meet  her,  to  prepare  her 
for  this  visitor  from  the  other  world;  but  no, 
she  had  better  be  taken  by  surprise.  Better 
know  his  fate  at  once.  The  first  glance  at 
Ciss's  face  as  she  recognized  the  old  lover 
would  set  his  doubts  at  rest  for  ever  in  one  way 
or  another.  He  must  have  his  doubts  set  at 
rest — in  one  Avay  or  another.  Now  that  he 
had  come  to  the  moment  he  was  fierily  im- 
patient to  know  the  best  or  the  worst.  He 
could  not  endure  another  hour  of  uncertainty. 
He  wondered  how  he  could  have  waited  all 
those  years  in  ignorance. 

Finding  the  unwelcome  visitor  in  the  little 
room  so  redolent  of  his  wife's  fragrant  presence 
was  something  oddly  intolerable.  Bernard 
sat  with  his  two  kid-gloved  hands  resting  on 

221 


222     THE  MOMENT  COMES  AND  PASSES 

his  stick,  his  obstinate  chin  on  his  hands.  He 
was  wearing  his  hat,  another  intolerable  thing 
to  Maurice  Grace  at  the  moment.  It  irked 
him  that  a  kinsman  of  his  own  should  show 
his  lack  of  elementarj'^  good  manners  before  the 
man  whose  place  he  had  taken,  who,  if  he  had 
had  his  rights,  would  now  be  Ciss's  husband. 

Cecilia  had  waited  to  glance  at  a  letter  which 
lay  waiting  for  her  on  the  hall-table  while  the 
two  men  went  into  the  drawing-room.  There 
was  a  fire  on  the  hearth;  Ciss  loved  fires,  and 
would  have  them  all  seasons  of  the  year;  and 
the  firelight  shone  on  the  fire-brasses,  on  the 
frame  of  a  mirror,  on  the  gilt  backs  of  books 
in  a  tall  Sheraton  bookcase;  it  lit  warmly  the 
white  curtains,  the  white  sofa  on  which  Ciss 
loved  to  recline,  the  thousand  and  one  pretti- 
nesses  of  the  room.  There  was  a  scent  of 
autumn  violets  conflicting  with  the  sharp  sea- 
sweetness  that  came  in  through  the  open  win- 
dow. Oddly  incongruous  with  the  daintiness 
was  Bernard  Grace. 

Maurice  Grace  did  not  introduce  the  two 
men.  He  felt  furious  against  Bernard  for  be- 
ing there  at  so  inopportune  a  moment.  The 
special  form  the  injury  took  was  Bernard's 
wearing  his  hat  in  Ciss's  room,  the  unlicked 
cub! 

He  gave  the  curtest  of  greetings  to  the  in- 
truder and  turned  away.     Would  the  fellow 


THE  MOMENT  COMES  AND  PASSES     223 

see  that  he  wasn't  wanted  and  go?  Bernard 
didn't  seem  to  see  it.  He  wasn't  curious  even 
about  the  visitor  with  the  distinguished  pres- 
ence as  he  would  have  been  ordinarily.  He 
nodded  to  Maurice  Grace  as  curtly  as  he  had 
been  nodded  to. 

"I  came  to  see  Cecilia,"  he  said. 

Sir  Paul  Chadwick  turned  and  looked  at 
him.  Cecilia's  name  spoken  so  easily  by  such 
a  one  was  something  of  a  shock  to  him.  Why 
should  Cecilia  be  at  the  beck  and  call  of  such 
as  Bernard  Grace? 

"Where  is  Ceciha?" 

"She  came  in  with  us.  I  suppose  she  has 
gone  to  take  off  her  hat." 

"She  needn't  do  that."  Bernard  Grace 
stood  up  suddenly  and  made  for  the  door.  "I 
want  to  talk  to  her.  I  can  do  it  as  well  out- 
side the  house  as  within." 

"Don't  keep  her  out  too  long.  Bring  her 
back  while  it  is  light." 

Sir  Paul  Chadwick  listened  with  a  growing 
expression  of  displeased  surprise.  Who  was 
this  jDerson  who  could  have  Cecilia's  company 
when  he  desired  it,  so  long  as  he  did  not  keep 
her  out  after  dark?  He  turned  his  back  and 
walked  to  the  window,  from  which  he  looked 
out  on  Dalkey  Island  and  the  Sound,  and 
Howth  beyond  them,  all  steeped  in  the  even- 
ing gold,  without  being  aware  of  their  beauty. 


224.     THE  MOMENT  COMES  AND  PASSES 

Meanwhile,  Cecilia,  meeting  Bernard  Grace 
in  the  doorway,  recoiled  from  him  with  an 
overwhelming  sense  of  annoyance.  His  pres- 
ence at  such  a  moment  was  little  less  than  a 
misfortune.  At  all  hazards  he  must  be  got 
rid  of.  It  was  not  to  be  thought  of  that  he 
should  be  present  at  the  meeting  between  her 
mother  and  Sir  Paul  Chadwick.  And  at  any 
moment  might  come  Ciss's  light  foot  on  the 
doorstep,  and  the  tapping  with  her  fingers  on 
the  door,  by  which  she  announced  her  arrival  to 
her  husband  or  her  daughter. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked,  with  a 
harshness  very  unusual  in  her. 

"I  want  to  see  you.  There  is  something  I 
must  talk  to  you  about.  Something  has  hap- 
pened. Come  out  with  me,  since  you  seem  to 
have  visitors,  where  we  can  talk  quietly." 

She  sprang  at  the  suggestion.  Anything  to 
get  him  out  of  the  way  just  now.  She  had 
meant  to  efface  herself.  No  one  was  to  look 
on  at  that  moment,  except  the  three  who  must 
take  part  in  it.  The  necessity  was  so  urgent 
that  she  lost  sight  of  her  personal  feeling  about 
Bernard  Grace. 

"Very  well,"  she  said.  "Anything  you  have 
to  say  to  me  may  as  well  be  said  out  of  doors." 

She  was  listening  with  the  ears  of  a  hare 
for  the  sound  of  her  mother's  footstep. 


THE  MOMENT  COMES  AND  PASSES     225 

She  put  on  her  hat  which  she  had  just  taken 
off,  and,  opening  the  door,  led  the  way  down 
the  steps  and  across  the  httle  sandy  lawn  to 
the  gate  which  opened  on  the  road.  Sir  Paul 
Chadwick  heard  and  saw  them  go,  for  he  had 
left  the  window  that  overlooked  the  sea  for 
the  one  that  looked  to  the  mountains.  He 
frowned  as  he  saw  them  go  with  that  air  of 
intimacy. 

"Your  daughter  is  very  like  her  mother,"  he 
said,  turning  to  Maurice  Grace. 

"Yes;  she  is  not  the  least  little  bit  in  the 
world  a  Grace,"  the  father  responded,  with  a 
slight  bitterness. 

"And  the     .     .     .     the     .     .     .     youth?" 

It  was  not  easy  for  Sir  Paul  Chadwick  to 
show  curiosity  of  this  kind;  but  he  felt  that  he 
wanted  to  know  what  there  could  be  between 
Cecily's  daughter  and  the  young  bounder,  as 
he  mentally  called  Bernard  Grace. 

"The  youth  is  a  cousin  of  my  own  and  a 
cousin  therefore  of  Cecilia's.  He  is  not  a  bad 
youth,  though  he  is  too  sure  of  himself.  He 
has  been  brought  up  to  be  too  sure  of  him- 
self.    The  folly  of  an  adoring  mother.    .    .    ." 

Sir  Paul's  face  relaxed  from  its  disapproval. 
To  be  sure  Cecilia  ought  not  to  be  at  a  cousin's 
beck  and  call,  when  he  happened  to  be  such 
an  objectionable  person;  but  still,  cousinship 


226     THE  MOMENT  COMES  AND  PASSES 

went  some  way  towards  explaining  the  in- 
timacy which  was  so  distasteful  to  him. 

He  still  stared  from  the  window,  and  while 
he  looked  Ciss  came  in  by  the  little  gate.  Hav- 
ing known  Cecilia  he  was  prepared  for  Ciss; 
but  even  so  he  felt  his  heart-strings  tighten 
as  she  came  towards  the  house,  smiling  up  at 
the  window  as  though  she  expected  to  see  a 
welcoming  face  there. 

She  was  wearing  white,  with  a  black  lace 
scarf  draped  about  her  shoulders ;  on  her  golden 
hair  was  a  wide  black  hat  beneath  which  her 
fair  face  shone  out  radiantly.  She  was  not  the 
Cecily  he  had  known,  but  she  was  that  Cecily 
grown  to  wifehood  and  motherhood:  "as  the 
full  bud  becomes  the  perfect  flower;"  matron- 
hood  and  the  years  had  given  Ciss  a  gracious 
roundness  and  amplitude.  She  was  a  creature 
of  soft  flowing  lines  from  her  head  to  her  feet, 
not  the  slender,  immature  Cecily  he  remem- 
bered. 

He  drew  back  into  the  shadow  of  the  muslin 
curtains. 

"It  is  Mrs.  Grace,"  he  said,  turning  to 
Cecily's  husband;  but  Maurice  Grace  had 
gone  out  into  the  hall  to  open  the  door  for 
Ciss.  For  the  moment  Maurice  Grace  was  a 
httle  frightened.  Ought  Ciss  to  be  prepared? 
Would  it  not  be  a  shock  coming  face  to  face 
with  the  old  lover  she  believed  to  be  dead.     He 


THE  MOMENT  COMES  AND  PASSES     227 

did  not  know  that  she  knew  Paul  Chadwick 
to  be  hving. 

He  heard  her  three  httle  taps  upon  the  door 
before  he  could  open  it,  then  her  key  in  the 
lock.  He  remembered  now  that  she  had  said 
she  would  take  the  latch-key,  lest  they  should 
not  be  back  before  she  returned,  and  Nannie 
and  Kate  be  too  busy  in  the  back  premises  to 
hear  the  faint  tinkle  which  was  all  the  door- 
bell could  do  by  way  of  ringing. 

"Well,  my  darling,"  he  said  as  they  came 
face  to  face. 

Ciss  fluttered  down  upon  him  two  or  three 
of  her  light,  soft  kisses,  which  had  a  way  of 
falling  like  rose-leaves  upon  his  face. 

"So  you  have  got  back  before  me,"  she  said. 
"What  an  afternoon!  I  should  have  envied 
you  if  I  had  not  been  listening  to  the  Ring. 
It  was  wonderful.     But  I  do  want  my  tea." 

"Ciss,"  he  said,  detaining  her,  "a  very  old 
friend  has  come  to  see  you,  one  you  have  not 
heard  of  for  years." 

"Edith  Dromore,"  she  said,  with  shining 
eyes,  breaking  away  from  him  in  her  eagerness 
to  see  her  visitor.  "I  have  been  dreaming  that 
I  saw  her." 

"Not  Lady  Dromore,  Ciss,"  he  answered, 
intercepting  her  in  the  narrow  passage;  "not 
Lady  Dromore.  You  remember  Sir  Paul 
Chadwick?" 


228     THE  MOMENT  COMES  AND  PASSES 

"Sir  Paul  Chadwick!  Yes,  I  remember 
Cecilia  told  me  about  him.  We  thought  once 
that  he  was  dead." 

"But  you  are  glad  he  is  alive?" 

"Ah,  yes,  I  am  glad,"  she  said.  He  felt 
rather  than  saw  her  shudder.  "It  would  have 
been  such  a  horrible  death,  poor  Paul!  They 
ought  to  have  told  me  long  ago.  These  things 
cause  nightmares." 

She  pushed  past  him  gently  and  entered  the 
little  drawing-room.  He  had  an  absurd  feel- 
ing that  he  ought  to  let  them  meet  alone,  like 
lovers  long  parted,  but  he  reminded  himself 
that  it  was  all  over  and  done  with  more  than 
twenty  years  ago.  For  twenty  years  Ciss  had 
been  his  own.  Surely  that  possession  of  his 
had  become  reality,  and  all  the  rest  mists  and 
shadows  ? 

He  seemed  to  have  been  a  long  time  de- 
liberating with  himself,  yet  he  followed  Ciss 
closely  into  the  drawing-room.  Sir  Paul 
Chadwick  had  turned  from  the  window,  and 
was  looking  at  Ciss  as  though  she  were  a  ghost. 
It  was  strange  to  see  Cecily  again,  although 
he  had  ceased  to  suffer  for  her.  She  went  to- 
wards him,  the  evening  gold  shining  coldly  on 
her  face  and  hair.  She  was  reflected  in  the 
little,  round  mirror  above  the  fireplace.  The 
pale  light  flooded  her  face  and  glowed  even 
in  the  depths  of  her  eyes. 


THE  MOMENT  COMES  AND  PASSES      229 

"Why,  Paul!"  she  said,  "Paul!  And  so 
you  came  back  safe  and  sound?  Why  didn't 
some  one  tell  me  long  ago?  It  was  cruel  not 
to  let  me  know.  It  was  a  fear  and  a  terror 
through  all  the  happy  years  of  my  married  life 
the  thought  of  what  had  happened  to  you.  I 
thought  you  were  dead  till  I  knew  from  Cecilia 
that  you  lived.  Some  one  ought  to  have  told 
me." 

She  had  taken  his  two  hands  and  was  look- 
ing up  into  his  face. 

"You  are  reall}^  like  a  man  come  back  from 
the  dead,  Paul,"  she  said,  "and  I  am  so  glad 
to  see  you.  Did  you  know  I  was  married? 
This  is  my  husband.  Of  course  you  have  met. 
And  you  know  my  girl,  too.  Where  is 
Cecilia,  JNIaurice?" 

Maurice  Grace  was  looking  on  like  a  man  in 
a  dream.  Was  this  the  moment  he  had 
dreaded  all  these  years,  the  moment  which  he 
had  not  dared  to  face  till  his  young  daughter 
had  spurred  him  on  to  it  ? 

Ciss  was  looking  back  at  him  and  her  ex- 
pression had  nothing  but  pure  love  and  pride 
in  it.  She  relinquished  her  clasp  of  Paul 
Chad  wick's  hands,  and  thrust  an  arm  through 
her  husband's. 

"And  are  you  married,  Paul?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Ah,  I  am  sorry  for  that,"  said  Ciss  with 


230     THE  MOMENT  COMES  AND  PASSES 

a  wise  air.  "You  must  marry;  it  is  the  hap- 
piest thing.  Where  are  you  staying?  And 
how  is  dear,  beautiful  Arlo?  CeciHa,  happy 
girl,  was  there.  And  have  you  been  to  the 
House  of  Dromore  lately?  I  have  not  seen 
Edith  for  ages.  Only  this  summer  I  met 
Betty — a  dear  girl.  My  Cecilia  has  been  stay- 
ing with  them.  But,  of  course,  you  know 
that.  Cecilia  wrote  to  me  about  you.  At 
first  I  didn't  know  whether  I  had  only 
dreamed  that  you  were  dead." 

Sir  Paul  listened,  his  head  bent.  He  un- 
derstood that  it  had  been  thought  wiser  not 
to  talk  of  him  to  Ciss.  Poor  Cecily,  his  feel- 
ing for  her  had  been  purged  of  passion  long 
ago.  He  was  glad  that  she  could  be  happy 
with  her  low-born  husband;  glad  that  he  was 
a  good  fellow  and  gentle  by  nature,  since  he 
was  poor  Cecily's  husband. 

Nannie  D'Arc\^  brought  the  tea  and  Ciss  sat 
at  the  table  and  made  it  and  poured  it  out. 
The  low  sun  was  in  her  hair  and  lay  on  her 
face,  revealing  it  smooth  and  unlined  as  a 
child's  face.  Ciss  had  escaped  suffering. 
Even  in  that  fiery  trial  long  ago  her  mind 
had  fallen  asleep.  She  looked  as  though  she 
must  have  slept  through  the  years,  so  lightly 
had  they  touched  her. 

She  chattered  like  a  happy  child  over  the 
teacups.     There    were    so    many    things    she 


THE  MOMENT  COMES  AND  PASSES     231 

wanted  to  know.  She  complained  that  after 
the  first  letters  Cecilia  had  had  little  to  tell 
her  about  the  House  of  Dromore. 

And  presently  the  dark  was  in  the  room. 
Sir  Paul  Chadwick  had  drunk  his  tea  and  had 
suggested  going;  but  Ciss  had  urged  him  to 
stay,  looking  always  to  her  husband  to  ratify 
the  invitation.  The  dark  was  in  the  room, 
and  he  began  to  wonder  with  a  certain  heat 
and  indignation  where  Cecilia  could  be  with 
the  young  bounder.  What  were  Cecily  and 
her  husband  about  to  allow  their  beautiful 
young  daughter  to  go  wandering  with  her 
bounder  cousin  in  the  dark?  Would  she  ever 
come  in?  He  found  himself  listening  for 
Cecilia's  feet  running  up  the  little  flight  of 
steps  as  he  had  heard  Cecily's.  He  had  been 
used  to  have  a  strange,  sweet  feeling  about 
Cecily,  the  girl  he  had  loved,  who  had  loved 
him  so  well  that  her  grief  at  his  supposed  death 
had  caused  the  undoing  of  their  love.  But 
this  was  another  Cecih%  this  one  who  seemed 
set  apart  from  him  in  the  sanctities  of  wife- 
hood and  motherhood,  sanctities  into  which  he 
could  not  enter.  In  this  happy,  satisfied  Ce- 
cily he  had  no  part. 

Maurice  Grace  was  very  silent;  but  then  he 
was  seldom  talkative,  and  Ciss  talked  enough 
for  all  three.  He  sat  with  his  eyes  shining 
under   their   drooped   lids.     In   the   midst   of 


232     THE  MOMENT  COMES  AND  PASSES 

Ciss's  chatter  he  stood  up  and  walked  to  the 
window.  He  felt  oddly  light — light-headed, 
light-hearted,  light-footed — as  though  the 
burden  of  the  years  had  fallen  away  from  him. 
The  moment  had  come  and  passed  which  had 
cast  its  shadow  over  his  married  happiness. 
Was  it  possible?  Was  it  possible?  There 
had  always  been  a  cloud  between  him  and  the 
good  sun.  And  now  to  think  how  it  had 
drifted  away,  like  the  merest  breath  of  mist  of 
a  summer  morning!  Ciss's  chatter  came  to 
him  as  from  somewhere  far  off.  He  could  not 
realize  yet  that  the  moment  had  come  and 
passed,  that  Ciss  was  his  and  not  her  hand- 
some, aristocratic  first  lover's.  Ciss's  eyes  had 
been  candid.  She  had  looked  at  him  as  she 
had  never  looked  before.  Ciss  awake  had  rati- 
fied the  choice  of  Ciss  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

DON    QUIXOTE 

Cecilia  walked  away  from  the  house  by  Ber- 
nard Grace's  side,  her  thoughts  too  full  of  the 
meeting  that  was  about  to  happen  to  leave 
very  much  room  for  him.  Glancing  at  him  as 
they  walked,  in  a  wonder  at  his  unwonted  si- 
lence, she  was  struck  by  the  gloom  of  his  ex- 
pression. So,  with  a  look  of  trouble  and  per- 
plexity in  his  handsome,  florid  face,  he  was 
much  less  intolerable  than  in  his  self-satisfied, 
egotistical  moods.  She  felt  reassured,  too,  as 
to  his  intentions:  whatever  they  might  be  he 
was  not  going  to  thrust  his  love-making  upon 
her. 

They  turned  down  by  the  entrance  of  the 
fishermen's  harbor  on  to  the  little  pier  where 
the  fish  were  flung  ashore  in  shining  masses 
when  the  boats  came  in.  The  place  was  empty 
and  deserted  now,  except  for  one  or  two  boats 
which  rocked  idly  by  the  pier;  the  fishermen 
were  out  laying  their  lines,  and  there  was  not  a 
creature  in  view. 

She  sat  down  on  the  stone  post  to  which 

233 


234  DON  QUIXOTE 

the  boats  were  made  fast  when  they  came 
alongside. 

"Well,"  she  asked,  "what  did  you  wish  to 
see  me  about?" 

"I'm  sorry  I  bothered  you  the  other  day," 
he  said,  almost  humbly.  "I'd  been  led  to  be- 
lieve you'd  a  kindness  for  me.  People  are  mis- 
taken sometimes,  you  know." 

Was  this  Bernard  Grace?  Was  it  pos- 
sible ?  He  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  at  Cecilia ; 
she  saw  anxiety  in  them  and  something  of 
shame.  What  on  earth  had  happened  to 
make  him  like  this? 

"Never  mind,"  she  said,  feeling  unwontedly 
kind  to  him.  "It  was  a  mistake.  I've  no 
kindness  for  any  one,  not  in  the  way  you 
mean." 

"Not  that  fellow,  that  lord  that  was  so  con- 
foundedly impudent  to  me?" 

"I've  no  kindness  for  any  one  in  the  way 
you  mean,"  she  repeated. 

"Ah,  well.  I  never  could  bear  to  be  beaten 
by  any  one.  He  pushed  himself  between  you 
and  me.  I'm  not  the  one  to  kowtow  to  a 
lord,  and  I  wouldn't  be  put  down  by  him  if 
he  was  a  lord  twenty  times  over.  However,  it 
isn't  of  him  I  came  to  speak.  I've  got  into 
trouble — worse  than  that,  I've  got  some  one 
else  into  trouble.  I  thought  you  could  help 
me,  maybe." 


DON  QUIXOTE  235 

He  looked  at  her  shamefaced,  and  Ceciha 
liked  him  better  than  she  had  ever  liked  him 
in  the  days  of  his  overweening  prosperity. 

"What  is  it,  Bernard?"  she  asked  in  a  voice 
dangerously  soft.     "I  will  help  you  if  I  can." 

The  blood  came  darkly  into  his  cheek. 

"It  is — Irene  Tollemache,"  he  said.  "I've 
been  playing  the  fool  with  her,  and  the  poor 
little  girl  got  fond  of  me.  If  you'd  only  have 
looked  at  me,  Cecilia,  perhaps  it  w^ouldn't  have 
happened.  But  I'd  always  that  joking  way 
with  girls.  I  never  could  let  them  alone, 
and,"  he  bridled  a  little,  "if  I  could  they 
wouldn't  let  me  alone.  I  didn't  mean  any- 
thing with  Irene,  but  she  took  it  seriously. 
She's  only  a  baby,  and,  being  English,  she 
doesn't  understand  that  an  Irishman  doesn't 
always  mean  all  he  says  to  a  girl.  She  took 
every  humbugging  word  I  said  for  gospel. 
She's  head  over  ears  in  love  with  me.  Worse, 
my  mother  knows  about  it.  She  caught  us 
together — it  was  my  fault — after  every  one 
was  in  bed.  I'd  persuaded  Irene  to  come 
down  and  sit  with  me  while  I  smoked  my  pipe. 
I  seemed  never  to  get  a  chance  of  a  word  or 
a  kiss,  the  mother  was  always  on  the  prowl. 
She  doesn't  know  what  she  says  when  her 
temper's  up.  Poor  little  Irene!  She  didn't 
understand  half  what  was  said  to  her.  She 
was  like  a  poor  little  flower  lashed  by  the  wind 


236  DON  QUIXOTE 

and  the  rain.  She  stood  there  trembhng,  and 
I  thought  she  was  going  to  faint.  The  ways 
of  women  are  queer.  My  mother  never  said  a 
word  to  me.  I  was  her  innocent  boy,  that 
poor  Httle  Irene — Irene,  mind  you! — had  in- 
veigled and  led  astray." 

He  took  out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped  his 
forehead.  He  had  the  look  of  one  who  recalls 
some  horrible  thing  gone  over,  and  yet  there 
was  an  air  of  grim  humor  in  the  concluding 
words. 

"I  can't  tell  you  half  how  bad  it  was, 
Cecilia,"  he  went  on.  "My  mother — never 
mind — she  is  my  mother  after  all.  Poor  little 
Irene!" 

"And  what  did  you  do,  Bernard  Grace?" 
flashed  Cecilia,  turning  to  him  suddenly. 
"What  did  you  do  when  that  storm  fell  upon 
the  girl?" 

"What  did  I  do?"  he  repeated,  a  little 
sullenly.  Even  now  he  was  not  so  humble  that 
Cecilia  could  hector  or  lecture  him.  "What 
do  you  suppose  I  did?  Am  I  to  be  brow- 
beaten by  a  woman,  even  my  own  mother?  I 
put  my  arms  about  the  poor  little  thing  and 
told  the  mother  outright  I  was  going  to  marry 
her.     .     .     ." 

"Ah,  I  am  glad  you  did  that,"  Cecilia  said, 
her  face  clearing.  "But  had  you  asked  her? 
Irene,  I  mean.     Would  she  be  willing?" 


DON  QUIXOTE  237 

"Would  a  duck  swim?"  asked  Bernard,  with 
a  smile  which  for  the  moment  made  Cecilia 
feel  the  old  detestation  for  him.  "I  never 
meant  to  do  it,  Cecilia.  I  was  only  having 
my  fun.  I  never  thought  seriously  of  any  girl 
but  you.  But  now  I  suppose  I'm  let  in  for 
it." 

He  did  not  seem  as  though  he  minded  very 
much — being  let  in  for  it. 

"You  should  have  seen  Irene's  face  as  she 
looked  up  at  me  when  I  spoke.  Poor  little 
Irene!  You  see,  other  girls  can  value  what 
you  throw  away,  Cecilia." 

Cecilia  looked  at  him  again  and  a  great 
sweetness  was  in  her  expression. 

"I'm  glad  you  stood  up  for  the  poor  little 
thing,"  she  said.  "And,  after  all,  your  mother 
will  come  round.  Miss  Tollemache  belongs  to 
a  very  good  family,  does  she  not?" 

"Her  father's  cousin  to  an  earl,"  Bernard 
Grace  said  proudly.  "I  think  a  deal  of  that, 
Cecilia,  and  so  would  you.  I  always  liked  a 
choice  article,  as  you  know.  But  it  won't  go 
down  with  my  father  and  mother.  I'll  have 
a  stand-up  fight  with  them  over  it.  I'm  glad 
Irene'll  be  out  of  it.  I.,ord,  what  a  woman's 
tongue  is  when  she  lets  it  go!  My  mother 
never  thought  much  of  Irene,  she  being  poor 
and  the  nuns  training  her  for  a  governess. 
She  liked  her  being  with  the  girls  because  of 


238  DON  QUIXOTE 

the  English  accent.  .She  hoped  they'd  catch 
it  from  her.  A  beggar's  a  beggar,  she  says, 
even  if  there  is  a  lord  in  the  family.  'Much 
good  it  did  IMaurice  Grace,'  she  says,  'to  have 
a  lord  for  his  wife's  cousin.'  " 

Cecilia  smiled  faintly. 

"And  what  do  you  want  me  to  do,  Ber- 
nard?" she  asked. 

"I  would  have  asked  vour  mother  if  I  had 
seen  her.  You  will  ask  her  for  me.  Will 
your  mother  take  in  Irene  for  me  till  I  can 
settle  something  about  our  marriage?" 

"I  am  quite  sure  she  will."  All  of  a  sudden 
Cecilia  felt  that  she  liked  Bernard  Grace  and 
was  ready  to  become  his  champion.  "Where 
is  Irene  now?" 

"I  didn't  dare  leave  her  with  the  mother, 
so  as  soon  as  the  morning  came  and  she  could 
pack  her  poor  little  trunk,  I  took  her  off  to 
Fan.  Fan  and  I  were  always  friends.  My 
mother  would  have  turned  her  out  last  night 
if  I  wasn't  there  to  interfere.  Fan's  terrified 
lest  the  mother  should  know  she's  there.  I 
told  Fan  to  hide  her  if  the  mother  came  along. 
'Is  it  hide  her  from  my  mother?'  said  Fan, 
'why,  she'd  rout  the  house  from  top  to  bottom 
if  she  thought  I  was  hiding  anything  on  her.' 
I  left  Fan  trembling,  afraid  the  mother'd 
come  along.  I  told  her  in  case  she  saw  her 
coming  to  let  Irene  slip  out  by  the  garden 


DON  QUIXOTE  239 

and  keep  away  till  my  mother  was  gone.  I 
wouldn't  have  her  and  poor  Irene  meet  with- 
out myself  being  there  for  a  good  deal,  I 
tell  you.  The  mother's  mad  against  you,  too, 
Cecilia." 

"But  why?" 

The  old  self-satisfied  smile  returned  to  his 
face  for  a  fleeting  instant. 

"When  she  thinks  of  the  fortunes  I  might 
have  married  only  for  you.  There  are  the 
Higginses.  Old  Jim  Higgins  made  twenty 
thousand  pounds  out  of  the  pawnbroking,  and 
only  Nora  and  Katty  to  divide  it  among. 
And  there  is  Miss  Shea,  that's  heiress  to  half 
a  dozen  public-houses,  and  Rose  Hennessy,  and 
twenty  others,  all  girls  with  fortunes.  I  never 
cared  for  money.  I  always  had  a  taste  for 
the  choice  article." 

"Ah,  well,  Irene's  very  sweet.  You  will 
want  mamma  to  shelter  her  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible." 

"If  she  consents  I  could  bring  her  down  to- 
night." He  consulted  his  watch.  "Twenty- 
five  past  six.  I  could  have  her  here  by  ten 
o'clock." 

"I  do  not  know  if  it  will  be  possible  to- 
night; but  I  shall  try." 

A  wave  of  sharp  anxiety  came  over  her  to 
know  what  had  ha])pened  at  the  momentous 
meeting  between  Ciss  and  her  old  lover.     If 


240  DON  QUIXOTE 

all  was  well  then  she  could  plead  with  con- 
fidence for  Irene  and  poor  Bernard,  who  was 
proving  to  be  so  much  better  than  she  had  ex- 
pected. But  if  things  were  not  well  for  papa ; 
if  mamma  was  going  to  be  unhappy  because 
the  lover  out  of  her  own  world  lived  after  all, 
it  would  be  an  unpropitious  moment  to  ask 
them  to  saddle  themselves  with  Bernard's 
troubles. 

"Irene  might  have  gone  back  to  the  con- 
vent to  her  aunt,"  she  said.  "Why  did  you 
not  think  of  that?" 

"I  did  think  of  it.  But  I  don't  want  my 
mother  going  to  make  scenes  at  the  convent. 
How  could  I  tell  what  she'd  be  up  to?  I've 
spoked  her  wheel  there,  I  think.  I  went  to 
the  convent  from  leaving  Irene  with  Fan.  I 
saw  the  Reverend  JNIother ;  she  was  in  a  terrible 
state  about  it.  They  wanted  me  to  bring  her 
straight  back  there,  but  I  thought  I'd  like  her 
to  be  with  my  own  people  till  we  could  be 
married,  and  in  the  end  the  Reverend  Mother 
agreed.  Do  you  know,  Cecilia,  I  thought  she 
wasn't  over-pleased  about  the  marriage,  but  it 
isn't  likely,  is  it?  Nothing  but  my  marriage 
will  stop  my  mother's  tongue,  if  that  will. 
She's  capable  of  saying  the  things  she  said  to 
poor  Irene  to  any  one.  I  had  a  fear  she  might 
find  out  the  address  of  Irene's  father  and  write 
to  him.     Reverend  Mother  won't  let  her  have 


DON  QUIXOTE  241 

it,  and  she  has  no  way  of  finding  it  out  by  her- 
self." 

"Come  home  wdth  me,"  Cecilia  said. 
"You  shall  plead  your  own  cause  with  mamma 
and  papa.     I  am  sure  they  will  help  you." 

They  walked  back  to  Glan-na-Tore.  By 
this  time  the  sun  had  dropped  below  the  hori- 
zon, and  cheerful  lights  were  springing  up  in 
the  house  fronts  and  in  the  street  lamps.  The 
wind  came  coolly  off  the  sea  on  which  the  dark 
had  settled  down.  The  revolving  light  on 
Howth  flashed  and  was  dark. 

"I  sliall  not  be  able  to  rest  until  I  have 
left  Irene  under  your  roof,"  said  the  lover. 
"We  can  be  married  in  a  week  by  special 
license.  I've  got  it  here."  He  touched  the 
breast-pocket  of  his  coat.  "Then  I  shall  take 
Irene  to  her  father  and  we  will  tell  him  all 
about  it." 

"You  think  that  will  be  best?" 

"I  think  I  can  persuade  him  to  forgive  us. 
I  had  always  a  persuasive  tongue.  He  is 
blind,  you  know,  and  very  poor.  Irene  would 
like  him  to  live  with  us.  As  I  say  to  her, 
Mount  Auburn  is  large  enough." 

Mount  Auburn  was  the  great,  old,  ram- 
shackle mansion,  once  belonging  to  an  Irish 
peer,  which  was  on  the  farm  some  miles  down 
the  country  that  Patrick  Grace  had  purchased 
for  his  first-born. 


M2  DON  QUIXOTE 

"Irene  will  be  as  happy  as  a  queen  at  Mount 
Auburn,"  he  went  on.  "I  never  knew  such  a 
girl  for  the  country  and  a  garden.  And  she 
will  have  the  old  man  to  keep  her  company 
when  I'm  away  at  fairs  and  markets.  I'm 
going  to  stick  close  to  work  and  leave  politics 
to  better  men;  vou  see  I  sha'n't  have  so  much 
money  to  play  with  if  my  father  turns  rusty, 
as  he  may.  Luckily  he  can't  take  back  Mount 
Auburn." 

Why,  it  was  excellent,  Cecilia  thought. 
Mount  Auburn  would  be  quite  far  enough 
away  for  Irene  to  be  beyond  any  but  the  most 
infrequent  visits  from  her  mother-in-law,  whose 
predilections  were  for  town,  and  not  for  coun- 
try, when  she  took  her  walks  abroad.  And  it 
was  quite  possible  Irene  might  do  something 
yet  with  Bernard.  That  saying  of  his  about 
leaving  politics  to  better  men  was  a  bewilder- 
ment to  Cecilia.  When  had  Bernard  ever  ac- 
knowledged any  man  as  his  better? 

On  a  sudden  impulse  she  turned  to  him. 

"I'll  do  my  very  best  for  you  and  Irene," 
she  said.  "Irene  is  charming,  refined,  gentle, 
and  a  lady.     Irene  is  better  than  money." 

"Don't'l  know  it?"  he  said  humbly.  "She's 
far  beyond  me.  I've  been  learning,  Cecilia. 
The  trouble  of  the  last  few  hours  has  brought  it 
home  to  me.  I'm  not  good  enough  for  Irene. 
I  wasn't  good  enough  for  you.     I  wonder  how 


DON  QUIXOTE  243 

I  ever  had  the  impudence  to  lift  mv  eves  to 

you." 

It  was  a  mood  that  could  hardly  be  expected 
to  last  as  against  the  good  opinion  of  himself 
which  had  grown  up  with  Bernard;  but  at  least 
it  was  evidence  of  a  possibility  of  saving  grace 
in  Bernard.  Bernard  might  safely  be  left  to 
Irene. 

Arrived  at  Glan-na-Tore,  Cecilia  left  Ber- 
nard in  the  little  breakfast-room,  which  was  at 
the  other  side  of  the  hall,  till  she  could  tell  Ciss 
the  thing  he  needed. 

She  entered  the  drawing-room  with  a  beat- 
ing heart  for  what  she  might  find.  For  a  sec- 
ond or  two  she  could  see  nothing.  Then  the 
mist  cleared  from  off  her  eyes.  Her  father 
smiled  at  her  across  the  lamplight,  a  smile  of 
happy  reassurance.  Sir  Paul  Chadwick  was 
standing  by  the  mantel-piece.  Ciss,  in  a  low 
chair,  had  evidently  been  chattering  in  a  way 
to  amuse  her  audience. 

She  turned  to  Cecilia  as  she  came  in. 

"Well,  darling,"  she  said,  "so  you  have  got 
back?     What  have  you  done  with  Bernard?" 

Cecilia  came  and  leaned  over  the  back  of  her 
chair. 

"He  has  something  to  tell  you,"  she  said  in 
a  half  whisper.  "He  is  waiting  in  the  break- 
fast-room." 

"Ah,  something  that  can  wait,  I  dare  say. 


244  DON  QUIXOTE 

You  know  my  old  friend  Sir  Paul  Chadwick 
already.  You  have  met  him  at  the  House  of 
Dromore?  It  has  been  good  for  me  to  see  him 
in  the  land  of  the  living." 

Ciss  did  not  wait  for  an  answer.  She  rat- 
tled along  cheerfully,  apparently  in  the  highest 
spirits.  Sometimes  she  spoke  directly  to  her 
husband,  and  her  manner  to  him  said  plainly 
that  he  was  all  a  woman's  heart  could  desire. 
There  was  an  air  of  communion  as  she  looked 
at  him  that  spoke  of  a  thousand  tender  inti- 
macies. 

"Bernard  cannot  wait,"  Cecilia  said,  inter- 
rupting Ciss's  happy  flow  of  talk.  "He  has 
something  very  important  to  tell  you." 

She  looked  up  and  her  eyes  met  Sir  Paul 
Chadwick's  gaze,  which  had  an  amazed,  shocked 
interrogation  in  it.  To  her  intense  discomfort 
she  blushed  hotly.  What  was  he  thinking 
about  her? 

"Well,  I  had  better  go  and  see  what  he 
wants,"  Ciss  said,  jum])ing  up  from  her  chair. 
"And  do  you,  Cecilia,  help  us  to  persuade  Sir 
Paul  to  stay  to  dinner.  He  acknowledges 
that  he  has  no  engagement.  Why  should  he 
go  back  to  dine  at  a  hotel?" 

But  Sir  Paul  was  obdurate.  He  was  very 
glad  to  have  met  Mrs.  Grace  after  all  these 
years  and  to  find  her  so  well  and  so  happy. 
But  he  feared  he  must  go.     He  had  letters  to 


DON  QUIXOTE  245 

write,  business  to  attend  to.  His  manner  had 
an  odd  coldness  as  he  shook  hands  with  Ciss 
and  Ceciha. 

At  last  Cecilia  was  alone  with  her  father. 

"Well?"  she  said,  "well?" 

"You  were  quite  right,  Cecilia.  She  was 
glad  to  see  him,  glad  to  have  him  alive,  as  an 
old  friend.  But  he  matters  nothing  to  her. 
You  and  I  are  everything.  And  to  think  how 
I  have  lived,  dreading  this  meeting  all  those 
years.  It  was  wasted  suffering,  Cecilia,  if  suf- 
fering is  ever  wasted." 

"And  you  and  mamma  are  all  in  all  to  each 
other,"  Cecilia  said,  her  eyes  shining. 

"Mamma  and  I  and  you." 

She  came  and  laid  her  cheek  against  his 
shabby  coat-sleeve. 

"It  would  not  be  so  hard  now  if  I  were  to 
leave  you,"  she  said;  and  then  she  had  a  pang 
for  the  shadow  that  fell  over  his  face  in  the 
hour  of  his  joy. 

"Oh  no,  no;  we  could  not  do  without  you, 
Cecilia,"  he  said  hastily.  "What  do  you  mean, 
child?  Your  grandmother  spoke  of  you  and 
Bernard  Grace;  but  I  w^ould  not  listen  to  her. 
I  said  that  I  looked  higher  than  Bernard  Grace 
for  my  girl.     It  is  not  possible.     .     .     ." 

"Of  course  it  is  not.  You  may  go  on  look- 
ing higher.  Poor  Bernard  is  at  this  moment 
asking  mamma  to  help  him  in  his  love-affairs. 


246  DON  QUIXOTE 

It  is  that  little  Miss  Tollemache  who  is  at  school 
with  his  sisters.  She  is  English  and  a  lady, 
and  in  love  with  Bernard."  She  could  not 
keep  the  scornful  incredulity  out  of  her  voice. 
"She  is  very  young,  of  course,  and  very  poor. 
And,  wonder  of  wonders,  she  has  made  Ber- 
nard humble.  He  wants  us  to  take  her  in. 
His  mother  has  turned  her  out.  She  looks 
higher  for  Bernard  than  a  poor  lady.  They 
are  to  be  married  at  once." 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Maurice  Grace  with 
enjoyment;  "fancy  Bernard  as  Don  Quixote! 
That  horrid  mother  of  his!  Of  course  we  shall 
stand  by  him  and  the  girl  if  it  brings  on  us  the 
enmity  of  the  whole  family.  It  will  be  a  blow 
to  your  Granny." 

He  laughed  softly  to  himself.  He  had  the 
happiness,  keen  and  fresh,  of  one  newly  es- 
caped from  a  great  fear  and  a  gi'eat  danger. 
He  had  forgotten  the  shadow  which  momen- 
tarily Cecilia's  words  had  cast  upon  his  joy. 
He  watched  the  door  for  Ciss  to  come  back, 
Ciss  who  was  the  light  of  his  world,  his  light, 
of  which  henceforth  he  need  not  fear  the 
eclipse. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

CECILIA^S   VOCATION 

It  was  one  of  the  occasions  when  joy  is  to 
be  felt.  Maurice  Grace  was  ver}^  silent  that 
evening,  but  joy  emanated  from  him,  sat  upon 
his  serious  face,  wrapped  him  about  like  a 
garment.  As  they  sat  at  dinner  together,  hus- 
band, wife,  and  child,  he  kept  glancing  from 
Ciss  to  Cecilia  with  a  quiet  radiance  in  his 
gaze  as  though  they  had  been  given  back  to 
him  from  the  grave. 

Could  they  do  without  her  now  that  they 
were  more  than  ever  all  in  all  to  each  other, 
Cecilia  wondered.  She  had  the  old  longing 
upon  her  to  flee  away  like  the  dove  and  be  at 
rest.  The  quiet  coolness  and  greenery,  the 
innocence  and  peace  of  Mount  St.  Mary's, 
beckoned  to  her  like  mirage  to  a  thirsty  trav- 
eler in  the  desert.  There  was  a  high  corridor 
under  the  roof  at  INIount  St.  Mary's  which 
they  called  the  Rue  Celeste.  Above  it  rose 
an  observatory  tower,  from  which  was  a  superb 
view  of  mountains  and  sea  and  grassy  rolling 
plains.     From  it  you  could  see  sunsets  and  sun- 

247 


^48  CECILIA'S  VOCATION 

rises,  and  the  glory  of  the  stars  at  night  spread 
a  magnificent  panorama. 

On  both  sides  of  the  corridor  were  small  cells, 
containing  each  a  small  blue  and  white  cur- 
tained pallet,  one  or  two  articles  of  furniture 
of  unpainted  deal,  a  single  chair,  and  a  little 
square  of  looking-glass  in  which  a  nun  could 
see  if  her  coif  sat  awry,  but  hardly  her  whole 
face.  The  walls  were  whitewashed,  with  a 
black  and  white  crucifix  for  sole  ornament. 
She  thought  of  one  of  those  little  cells,  its  un- 
curtained window  looking  to  the  mountains  or 
the  sea,  as  a  nest  of  peace.  She  said  to  herself 
that  she  was  done  with  life,  and  she  not  yet 
twenty  years  old,  because  she  had  stolen  Betty's 
lover  and  Betty  was  cold  to  her,  not  knowing 
that  Cecilia  would  strip  herself  bare  rather 
than  clothe  herself  in  the  lightest  of  Betty's 
cast-off  joys.  She  was  impatient,  being  young, 
to  find  a  short  cut  out  of  the  entanglement  in 
which  she  was  innocently  involved.  If  her 
father  and  mother  could  do  without  her  and  she 
could  slip  away  into  the  convent,  it  would  be 
an  easy  way  out.  Kilrush  would  return  to  his 
allegiance  to  Betty,  and  Betty  and  Lady  Dro- 
more  would  forget  that  Cecilia  had  ever 
brought  a  disturbing  presence  into  the  happi- 
ness of  their  lives.  And  poor  Cecilia,  who 
ought  not  to  marry  any  man  lest  she  should 
have  inherited  her  mother's  malady,  would  be 


CECILIA'S  VOCATION  249 

at  rest,  singing  for  God,  living  for  God,  with 
the  human  alleviation  of  Mother  Margaret's 
tenderness  for  ever  beside  her.  Mother  Mar- 
garet's deep,  spiritual  brown  eyes  looked  such 
love  at  Cecilia  as  a  mother's  eyes  hold  for  her 
young  daughter. 

And  to  be  sure  they  could  do  without  her. 
Ciss,  though  always  so  gentle  to  Cecilia,  had 
never  seemed  to  find  her  essential  to  her  life, 
and  for  all  papa's  fondness,  any  one  could  see 
that  his  great  passion  was  for  his  wife.  In  this 
hour  when  they  were  like  new-wed  lovers  they 
would  hardly  miss  Cecilia. 

The  quietness  of  the  evening  was  over  when, 
about  ten  o'clock,  Bernard  Grace  arrived  with 
the  shy  and  trembling  Irene.  The  girl  came 
stealing  into  the  room,  hiding  herself  behind 
Bernard's  broad  shoulders.  Ciss  went  to  meet 
her,  kissed  her,  and  drew  her  to  the  fire,  ex- 
claiming at  the  coldness  of  her  hands.  They 
warmed  and  comforted  her,  and  fed  her,  till 
presently  she  ceased  to  shiver  and  a  little  color 
came  into  her  pale,  dark  cheeks.  Plainly  she 
had  been  frightened  out  of  her  wits,  and  she 
turned  to  their  kindness  and  protection  in 
humble  gratitude. 

She  was  even  ready  to  let  Bernard  go  when 
he  went  at  last  unwillingly.  Cecilia  still  won- 
dered at  Irene;  but  she  was  fain  to  confess  that 
Bernard,  as  lover,  had  developed  certain  quali- 


250  CECILIA'S  VOCATION 

ties  which  she  could  not  have  beheved  him  to 
possess.  His  fussiness  over  Irene  would  have 
been  funny  if  it  had  not  been  touching.  He 
had  almost  to  be  pushed  out  of  the  house  to 
catch  his  last  train.  Love  was  working  mira- 
cles for  Bernard,  although  it  was  a  love  which 
had  taken  him  unawares  while  he  made  a  vul- 
gar play  of  it.  Bernard  genuinely  in  love  was 
no  longer  vulgar. 

Cecilia  carried  the  little  thing  off  to  the 
pretty  spare  room  which  was  side  by  side  with 
Cecilia's  own.  By  Ciss's  orders  a  fire  had 
been  lighted  there;  and  the  firelight  lit  up  the 
bright  little  nest  of  a  room  with  its  chintz  hang- 
ings and  its  pretty  white  furniture. 

Irene  warmed  her  fingers  at  the  blaze  as 
though  she  were  still  cold. 

"Bernard  told  you?"  she  said,  in  a  half-fear- 
ful whisper. 

"Yes,  he  told  me." 

"How  dreadful  his  mother  was,  how  she 
threatened  to  turn  me  out?  If  he  had  left  me 
a  minute  alone  with  her  I  should  have  died  with 
fear.  I  didn't  think  any  woman  could  be  like 
that.  Any  one  would  think  I  had  been  wicked. 
I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  felt  when  Bernard  put 
his  arms  round  me  and  said  I  was  going  to  be 
his  wife.  I  hadn't  thought  of  being  his  wife. 
I  was  so  fond  of  him  that  I  thought  of  noth- 
ing beyond  seeing  him  and  being  with  him." 


CECILIA'S  VOCATION  251 

Poor  Irene!  Cecilia  could  not  understand 
this  strange  infatuation  for  Bernard.  Verses 
of  her  dearest  poet  came  to  her  mind. 

"God  be  thanked !     The  meanest  of  His  creatures 
Has  two  soul-sides,  one  to  face  the  world  with. 
One  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loves  her." 

and — 

"Then  out  strode  Gismond:  then  I  knew 
That  I  was  saved.     I  never  met 
His  face  before,  but  at  first  view 

I  felt  quite  sure  that  God  had  set 
Himself  to  Satan.     Who  would  spend 
A  minute's  mistrust  on  the  end?" 

To  think  of  Bernard,  Bernard,  as  a  hero  of  ro- 
mance in  a  girl's  fervid  fancy !  It  was  incredi- 
ble; yet  in  Irene's  great  swimming  eyes  as  she 
lifted  them  to  Cecilia's  face,  the  truth  was  evi- 
dent. 

Outside  a  wind  had  sprung  up  and  the  glori- 
ous evening  had  ended  with  sharp,  sudden 
showers.  The  rain  beat  against  the  window, 
there  was  a  steady  turmoil  in  the  air  from  the 
waves  that  broke  against  the  rocks  below. 
Now  and  again  the  siren  from  the  lighthouse 
off  Howth  rose  like  the  melancholy  lowing  of 
some  great  beast,  and  died  away  again. 

"How  good  it  is  in  here!"  Irene  said,  with 
a  look  of  passionate  gratitude.  Stooping  im- 
pulsively she  kissed  Cecilia's  hand.     The  action 


252  CECILIA'S  VOCATION 

had  the  shy  grace  of  a  child's,  and  Ceciha's 
heart  went  out  to  the  poor  httle  waif. 

"You  will  like  it  at  Mount  Auburn,"  she 
said.  "It  is  a  sweet  old  place  with  such  a 
lovely  walled  garden,  beautiful  open  country 
about  it,  and  the  mountains  standing  round  it 
in  a  ring." 

"I  should  be  happy  anywhere  with  Bernard," 
Irene  said  quickly;  and  there  was  a  lilt  in  her 
voice  that  was  like  the  song  of  a  mating  bird 
just  beginning.  "And  I  am  so  glad  it  is  far 
away.  She — Bernard's  mother — said  that  it 
was  at  the  back  o'  God  speed ;  there  was  no  way 
of  getting  at  it  without  spending  half  the  day 
on  the  road." 

"And  she  detests  driving,"  Cecilia  said;  "so 
she  will  not  trouble  you  much." 

She  stirred  the  fire  to  a  blaze,  kissed  Irene, 
and  went  off  to  her  own  room.  She  was  glad 
that  Irene  had  not  discovered  any  M^ant  of  re- 
sponsiveness in  her  manner  to  the  raptures 
about  Bernard.  To  be  sure  she  thought  bet- 
ter of  Bernard  than  she  ever  had  before,  al- 
though he  had  only  done  what  any  decent  man 
in  his  place  would  have  done.  But  she  had  not 
yet  come  to  the  point  of  accepting  Bernard  as 
a  possible  hero  of  romance. 

In  her  own  room,  as  she  put  away  the  dress 
she  had  worn  in  the  afternoon,  her  fingers  felt 
in  the  pocket  the  hard  outline  of  a  letter,  the 


CECILIA'S  VOCATION  253 

letter  which  she  had  taken  from  the  hall  table 
as  she  entered  the  house  with  her  father  and 
Sir  Paul  Chadwick  and  had  forgotten.  A  let- 
ter from  Lady  Dromore!  How  strange  that 
even  for  a  little  while  she  should  have  forgot- 
ten it. 

She  laid  the  letter  on  one  side  while  she  said 
her  prayers,  her  prayers  of  thanksgiving  for 
the  happiness  which  dwelt  beneath  the  roof  of 
their  little  seaside  cottage  that  night,  a 
prayer  for  all  those  dear  to  her,  for  Kil- 
rush  and  Betty,  that  they  might  be  happy  to- 
gether, for  herself  for  help  and  guidance,  for 
Bernard  and  Irene.  While  she  knelt,  her  face 
pressed  against  the  counterpane  of  her  little 
white  bed,  she  thought  of  Irene  beyond  the 
wall  there,  anticipating  her  earthly  bridal  with 
timid  rapture;  of  herself,  this  side  of  the  wall, 
desiring  only  the  poor  garments  and  narrow 
cell  of  the  nun.  To-morrow  they  would  go  a- 
trousseauing  with  Irene.  Bernard  had  made 
a  special  point  of  it  that  his  little  bride  should 
have  everything  as  though  she  had  been  sped 
to  her  marriage  with  the  utmost  love  and  joy. 
And  to-morrow — it  was  the  time  to  speak — 
she  herself  would  ask  papa  and  mamma  if  they 
could  spare  her,  in  this  hour  of  their  joy,  to  the 
service  of  God. 

While  she  prayed,  her  tears  came  and 
flowed  in  a  torrent.     She  held  herself  close  in 


254  CECILIA'S  VOCATION. 

a  panic  lest  her  sobs  should  be  heard.  It 
would  be  good  to  be  at  peace,  with  JNIother 
Margaret  for  dear  friend  and  companion;  in 
the  little  cell  of  the  Rue  Celeste,  with  the  fine, 
stately  old  house  and  the  gardens,  and  the 
meadow  to  make  a  boundary  for  her  feet  till 
the  day  she  died.  Yet  she  needs  must  weep 
for  Cecilia,  who  had  made  such  a  little  flight 
into  the  world  and  bruised  her  wings,  as  she 
would  weep  over  the  face  of  a  dead  girl 
who  was  gone  to  heaven  after  suffering  upon 
earth. 

When  she  stood  up  at  last  with  a  wet  face 
and  tired  with  her  tears,  she  stretched  out  her 
hand  for  Lady  Dromore's  letter.  She  was 
greedy  for  news  of  them,  too  greedy  for  Cecilia 
who  was  going  to  be  a  nun,  and  so  she  had  re- 
frained her  eyes  from  reading  the  letter  till  her 
prayers  were  said. 

"My  Dearest  Child"  (it  began,  with  the 
old  loving  tenderness) : 

"One  of  these  days  you  will  receive  a  visit 
from  Sir  Paul  Chad  wick,  who  has  gone  up 
to  Dublin  with  the  intention  of  seeing  j^ou. 
He  has  confided  in  me,  Cecilia,  and  I  have  en- 
couraged him  to  hope  that  the  difference  be- 
tween your  age  and  his  need  not  be  an  insu- 
perable barrier  to  his  desire  of  winning  you. 


CECILIA'S  VOCATION  255 

He  was  once  in  love  with  vour  sweet  mother, 
and  was  deprived  of  her  love  by  a  succession 
of  sad  accidents.  He  has  been  faithful  to  her 
ever  since,  in  so  far  as  he  has  put  no  woman  in 
the  place  she  should  have  occupied.  I  have 
dreaded  for  him  the  shock  of  meeting  your 
mother  during  these  years ;  but  the  years  must 
have  brought  forgetfulness  to  her  as  they  have 
brought  new  hopes  to  him.  He  is  kind  and 
honorable  and  good,  and  the  mistress  of  his 
heart  and  of  Arlo  will  be  an  enviable  woman. 
Can  you  think  of  it,  my  dearest  child?  I  con- 
fess I  desire  it  ardently,  because  it  would  bring 
you  back  to  us,  and  make  you  in  a  sense  one  of 
us. 

"Tell  your  mother  that  it  is  mj  dearest  wish 
to  welcome  her  and  your  father  to  the  House 
of  Dromore  at  the  earliest  possible  moment  at 
which  they  can  pay  us  a  visit. 

"Kilrush  is  shooting  partridges  in  Sussex. 
Betty  is.  with  JNIrs.  Chapman,  at  Kilkee;  she 
was  not  quite  the  thing.  Dromore  has  been 
troubled  with  the  gout.  We  hear  that  Brian's 
ship  will  return  home  from  the  China  station 
next  IMay,  and  we  are  all  looking  forward  to 
seeing  the  boy.  The  others  are  well.  Good 
news  of  Guy  always.  He  is  to  be  a  wet  bob 
next  season.  How  glad  we  shall  be  if  you 
decide   that    vou   can   make    Paul    Chad  wick 


256  CECILIA'S  VOCATION 

happy  and  come  back  to  us  to  whom  you  really 
belong. 

"With  dearest  love  from  all  of  us, 
"Yours  most  fondly, 
"Edith  Dromore." 

Cecilia  dropped  the  letter  when  she  had  read 
it.  So  that  was  what  Sir  Paul  had  come  for. 
He  had  wanted  to  marry  her.  "No,  no,  no!" 
she  cried,  in  a  violent  recoil  from  the  idea. 
Why,  he  was  as  old  as  papa.  How  could 
Lady  Dromore  have  thought  that  she  would  do 
it?  To  marry  mamma's  old  lover!  No,  no, 
no!  she  would  marry  no  one:  she  had  an  aver- 
sion for  the  thought  of  the  marrying,  for  the 
thought  of  a  lover  and  a  lover's  caresses. 
Was  she  not  already  in  thought  the  bride  of 
Christ  and  the  Spouse  of  Heaven? 

With  the  passionate  distaste  strong  upon  her 
she  pulled  out  the  little  desk,  which  had  been  a 
present  from  papa  on  her  sixteenth  birthday, 
and  sat  down  to  write  to  Lady  Dromore.  She 
must  let  her  know  at  once  that  the  thing  was 
impossible.  She  wrote  half  a  dozen  lines 
hastily  and  then  pulled  up  short.  She  had 
been  about  to  tell  her  that  she  had  chosen  the 
conventual  life,  then  she  changed  her  mind; 
papa  might  refuse  his  consent,  he  might  tell 
her  to  wait  till  she  was  older.     There  was  no 


CECILIA'S  VOCATION  257 

use  spreading  the  news  till  the  thing  was  set- 
tled.    She  read  over  what  she  had  written. 

"Dearest  Cousin  Edith: 

"I  hope  you  will  not  be  disappointed  in 
me.  I  love  you  for  all  your  kindness  to  me, 
and  shall  always  love  you.  But  I  could  not 
marry  Sir  Paul  Chadwick.  It  is  a  great 
honor  for  me  that  he  should  wish  to  marry  me, 
and  I  hope  it  will  not  grieve  him.  I  have 
made  another  choice  for  my  life — " 

She  had  written  so  far.  She  hesitated  now 
for  a  few  moments  with  the  pen  held  in  her 
hand.     Then  she  added  some  more. 

" — ^which  you  shall  hear  of  very  soon.  It 
has  been  in  my  mind  for  a  long  time  more  or 
less:  it  was  there  when  I  was  with  j'^ou.  You 
must  think  of  me  as  being  very  happj^  al- 
though I  cannot  be  at  Arlo  nor  with  you. 
INIamma  is  very  happy,  happier  since  she  has 
seen  Sir  Paul  Chadwick.  She  is  very  glad  he 
lives  and  she  adores  papa.  I  hope  they  will 
come  to  you  presently.  I  am  very  sorry  that 
dear  Betty  has  not  been  well.  Give  her  my 
dear  love.  And  forgive  me  that  I  cannot  do 
what  you  want.  All  that  has  been  settled  for 
me  for  some  time." 

She  wanted  Lady  Dromore  and  Betty  to 


258  CECILIA'S  VOCATION 

know  that  while  she  had  been  with  them  her 
fate  was  ah'eady  decided,  so  that  she  could  not 
have  meant  to  take  Betty's  lover  from  her. 

She  closed  the  letter,  addressed  and  stamped 
it  before  she  went  to  bed,  so  that  it  might  be 
posted  early  in  the  morning.  But  it  was  a  long 
time  before  sleep  came  to  her.  She  tried  hard 
to  fix  her  mind  and  soul  upon  the  little  cell  in 
the  Rue  Celeste.  But  strive  as  she  would  the 
eyes  and  smile  of  Betty's  lover  would  come  be- 
fore her  gaze.  The  singing  in  the  convent 
chapel,  where  presently  she  would  lead  the 
choir,  could  not  fill  her  ears  to  the  exclusion  of 
the  voice  that  had  softened  for  her  till  every 
word  seemed  a  caress. 

"Lead  us  not  into  temptation!"  prayed 
Cecilia,  lying  awake  in  the  moonlight,  and  then 
fell  to  a  terrified  contemplation  of  herself  in 
the  veil  and  robe  of  a  nun,  with  Kilrush's  face 
and  voice  and  smile,  the  passionate  glance  of 
his  dark  eyes,  coming  between  her  and  her 
missal  and  crucifix. 


CHAPTER  XX 

Betty's  fairing 

Sir  Paul  Chadwick  had  returned  to  his 
hotel  in  a  mood  disturbed  and  displeased.  On 
the  one  hand  his  meeting  with  Ciss  had  troubled 
the  fountains  of  memory ;  on  the  other,  he  could 
not  endure  that  her  daughter  should  be  on 
terms  of  obvious  intimacy  with  "that  shocking 
bounder,"  as  he  called  Bernard  Grace  in  his 
own  mind. 

He  asked  himself  how  much  exactly  did  the 
intimacy  convey,  and  was  obliged  to  answer 
that  it  seemed  to  convey  a  great  deal.  Cecilia's 
going  out  with  the  young  bounder ;  her  return 
to  her  mother's  side  with  the  whispered  infor- 
mation that  Bernard  had  something  to  say; 
Ciss's  leaving  them  for  that  interview  with 
Bernard.  Did  it  all  connote  a  proposal,  an 
acceptance,  an  approval  ?  It  was  horrible,  but 
it  seemed  probable  enough.  What  a  profana- 
tion! He  was  divided  between  the  desire  to 
rush  back  to  Arlo  in  a  burning  rage,  and  the 
intention  of  remonstrating  with  Cecilia's  par- 
ents on  their  giving  their  daughter  to  such  a 
person  as  Bernard. 

259 


260  BETTY'S  FAIRING 

A  night's  sleep  brought  wiser  counsel. 
When  he  awoke  in  the  morning,  the  autumn 
sun  lay  warmly  upon  his  bed ;  he  had  neglected 
to  draw  the  blinds  overnight.  He  lay  in  luxu- 
rious idleness  for  a  while,  before  he  rang  the 
bell  for  his  shaving  water.  It  was  not  often  he 
lay  a-bed  in  the  mornings.  He  still  kept  up 
the  activities  of  youth,  although  he  had  given 
up  his  life  of  adventure.  That  had  been  a 
sacrifice  to  the  memory  of  his  happiness  with 
Ciss.  Lying  this  autumn  morning  in  bed  at 
the  International  he  began  to  ask  himself 
whether  that  passionate  atonement  had  been 
needed  after  all.  The  love  of  his  youth  seemed 
to  have  found  happiness  without  him. 

How  wonderfully  Ciss  had  kept  her  beauty ! 
Why,  she  was  as  beautiful  as  her  daughter; 
some  people  would  have  said  more  beautiful. 
How  radiant  she  had  been!  It  struck  him  all 
at  once  that  Cecilia  had  been  eclipsed.  Was  it 
by  reason  of  her  mother's  radiance?  No,  for 
Cecilia,  coming  in  from  the  open  air  to  that 
whisper  with  Ciss,  had  been  almost  as  joyful  as 
her  mother.  Yet  when  they  had  first  met  at 
the  hotel,  afterwards  when  they  went  back  to 
Dalkey  together,  Cecilia  had  been  eclipsed,  a 
little  thin  and  pale ;  there  had  been  a  sad  droop 
at  the  corner  of  her  mouth.  She  had  not 
looked  a  girl  happily  in  love. 

Well,  he  was  not  going  to  be  beaten  by  vague 


BETTY'S  FAIRING  261 

surmise.  After  all,  the  young  bounder  was 
her  cousin;  there  might  be  other  reasons  for 
the  appearance  of  intimacy  besides  those  which 
had  come  to  his  jealous  mind.  Ceciha  had 
seemed  to  like  him  at  the  House  of  Dromore, 
at  Arlo.  Had  he  not  heard  her  say  that  a  girl 
might  love  him  despite  his  nearly  fifty  years? 
He  had  been  annoyed  with  Kilrush  then,  of 
course,  because  of  the  pathetic  look  in  Betty 
Wynne's  brown  eyes  when  he  hung  about  her 
cousin.  But  he  had  misunderstood  perhaps. 
Betty  was  not  a  girl  from  whom  a  man  could 
be  easily  detached.  Betty  could  hold  her  own 
even  against  Cecilia. 

He  sprang  out  of  bed  with  sudden  energy 
and  into  his  bath  of  sea-water.  All  the  activ- 
ity in  his  nature  was  awake.  He  would  dis- 
cover before  giving  up  his  purpose  whether 
Cecilia  was  free  to  be  wooed  and  won  by  him 
or  another  man.  He  said  to  himself  that  she 
was  a  prize  worth  striving  for.  And  surely 
the  things  he  had  to  give  must  outweigh  that 
one  quality  of  youth  which  the  undesirable 
Bernard  possessed  as  against  him!  He  said  to 
himself  as  he  dressed  that  it  was  an  enterprise, 
an  adventure  worth  the  doing,  to  snatch  Cecilia 
out  of  the  environment  in  which  it  was  possible 
to  think  of  her  as  engaged  to  a  shocking  young 
bounder. 

Of  course  he  could  not  descend  on  Glan-na- 


262  BETTY'S  FAIRING 

Tore  in  the  morning  hours.  But  there  were 
things  he  had  to  do  in  Dubhn,  many  small  com- 
missions to  be  executed  for  himself  and  others, 
and  there  was  his  old  friend  McClellan  to  see. 
McClellan  would  lunch  him,  and  in  the  after- 
noon he  would  go  down  to  Glan-na-Tore  and 
find  out  how  matters  were  with  Cecilia. 

He  had  a  long  list  of  commissions  to  be 
executed  for  Lady  Dromore,  and  for  Lady 
Dromore's  daughters.  Some  one  to  see  about 
a  new  saddle  for  Lord  Dromore.  He  could 
always  be  trusted  to  execute  his  commis- 
sions conscientiously,  and  there  was  a  certain 
humor  in  the  painstaking  way  in  which  he 
journeyed  from  shop  to  shop,  now  and  again 
consulting  his  list  to  be  sure  that  he  omitted 
nothing. 

He  had  been  ordering  a  supply  of  wine  from 
a  Grafton  Street  shop,  and  as  he  crossed  the 
street  to  the  silk-mercers  on  the  other  side,  he 
was  held  up  momentarily  by  a  string  of  out- 
side cars.  As  they  passed  him,  with  no  place 
between  for  even  the  hardiest  pedestrian  to 
dash  through,  he  saw  a  couple  of  figures, 
"divinely  tall" — who  could  they  be  but  Ciss  and 
Cecilia? — enter  the  wide  door  of  the  big  shop. 
There  was  a  little,  insignificant  person  with 
them  whom  he  quite  overlooked. 

He  would  have  overtaken  them  if  he  could — 
he  had  a  thought  of  giving  them  lunch — but 


BETTY'S  FAIRING  263 

the  street  was  blocked.  Finally  he  made  a 
detour  round  a  post-office  van  and  a  half  dozen 
bicycles,  but  the  shop  had  swallowed  up  Ciss 
and  Cecilia. 

What  matter  ?  He  would  find  them  there — 
unless  they  went  out  by  another  door.  He 
did  not  know  if  there  was  another  door  or  not ; 
but  it  would  be  easy  enough  to  see  the  tall 
slenderness  of  mother  and  child  half  the  shop's 
length  away. 

He  had  several  commissions  to  execute  for 
the  ladies  at  the  shop.  There  were  patterns  to 
be  matched,  all  sorts  of  infinitesimal  as  well  as 
big  things  to  be  purchased.  He  put  himself 
into  the  hands  of  a  shopwalker  who  entrusted 
him  to  some  one  else.  The  girls  behind  the 
counter  giggled  a  little  behind  the  curtains  of 
their  hanging  wares.  He  was  so  painstak- 
ingly conscientious.  He  would  match  a  scrap 
of  wool,  a  reel  of  silk  exactly.  Spare,  elegant, 
upright,  he  looked  what  he  was,  a  man  of  a 
strenuous  character  and  active  life.  The  in- 
congruity tickled  the  damsels. 

While  he  stood  waiting  with  grave  politeness 
for  them  to  bring  the  things  he  wanted — hardly 
able  to  restrain  himself  when  a  narrow-chested 
girl  struggled  under  the  weights  of  heavy 
boxes — his  clear,  long-siglited  eyes  roved  hither 
and  thither  in  search  of  Ciss  and  Cecilia. 

He  was  rewarded  at  last  by  a  glimpse  of 


264  BETTY'S  FAIRING 

them.  So  they  had  not  left  the  shop  by  the 
other  door,  the  existence  of  which  he  had  dis- 
covered. They  were  going  upstairs.  He  de- 
termined to  stay  where  he  was  till  he  saw  them 
come  down.  The  list  of  his  commissions  was 
nearly  full. 

There  was  a  scrap  of  velvet  to  be  matched. 
The  narrow-chested  girl  brought  several  boxes 
without  result,  while  he  waited  with  grave  pa- 
tience, disdaining  to  take  a  chair,  and  the 
stream  of  shopping  women  passed  up  and 
down  by  him,  hardly  one  failing  to  look  at  him 
a  second  time. 

"It  might  be  upstairs,"  the  girl  said  at  last, 
having  failed  to  match  the  patterns.  "Would 
you  come  this  way,  j^lease,  sir?" 

He  followed  her  up  the  stairs,  looking  over 
her  head  for  Ciss  and  Cecilia.  They  were  not 
to  be  seen  anywhere.  This  part  of  the  shop 
was  very  quiet.  There  were  ladies  apparently 
waiting  for  something,  sitting  about  on  velvet 
couches,  turning  over  with  languid  interest  the 
pages  of  the  fashion-papers.  Round  about  him 
were  many  little  doors,  the  purpose  of  which  he 
did  not  think  to  conjecture,  half -glass  doors 
that  led  into  little  square  boxes  of  rooms. 

He  stood  looking  about  him  while  the  assist- 
ant went  in  search  of  the  velvet.  Where  on 
earth  had  Ciss  and  Cecilia  gone  to?  Had  the 
earth  opened  and  swallowed  them?     While  he 


BETTY'S  FAIRING  ^65 

stared  about  him  a  girl  with  a  skirt  over  her 
arm  came  through  one  of  the  httle  doors.  Ah, 
of  course,  they  must  be  fitting-rooms.  He 
could  see  over  the  whole  range  of  the  upper 
shop.  Into  one  of  the  fitting-rooms  the  objects 
of  his  search  must  have  vanished. 

"Please  come  this  way,"  his  special  assistant 
said  at  his  side.  She  was  carrying  a  heavy 
box  in  her  arms.  To  the  amazement  of  the 
waiting  ladies,  and  apparently  to  the  girl's  own 
embarrassment,  for  she  blushed  shyly,  he  took 
the  box  from  her  and  carried  it  to  the  place  she 
indicated. 

They  were  in  an  enclosure  formed  of  velvet 
seats  on  two  sides  with  the  fitting-rooms  at  one 
end.  The  assistant  lifted  the  lid  off  the  box  of 
velvet  and  compared  the  pattern.  Yes,  that 
was  it.     She  thought  they  had  it  in  stock. 

Sir  Paul  would  have  abhorred  the  idea  of 
peeping  deliberately,  but  he  could  not  help 
glancing  up  at  the  sound  of  an  opening  door 
towards  the  fitting-room  nearest  to  him.  As 
the  dressmaker,  coming  through,  held  the  door 
ajar  for  an  instant,  he  caught  sight  of  some  one 
standing  in  a  long  trailing  garment  of  white 
satin.  He  could  not  see  the  wearer  of  the  gar- 
ment; there  was  a  round  white  arm,  that  was 
all  that  was  to  be  seen,  warm  against  the  dead- 
white  satin.     Then  the  door  closed. 

"We  are  very  busy  with  a  wedding  order," 


266  BETTY'S  FAIRING 

the  dressmaker  said,  stopping  on  her  way  to 
speak  to  one  of  the  waiting  ladies;  "so  I  fear 
1  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  wait  a  while,  madam." 

She  had  the  bodice  of  white  satin  trimmed 
with  delicate  lace  over  one  arm.  The  lady  she 
addressed  was  immediately  interested. 

"Oh,  is  that  the  wedding-dress?"  she  asked. 

Two  or  three  other  ladies  came  up,  as  though 
the  thing  of  white  satin  and  lace  were  a  magnet. 
They  hung  over  it,  admiring  it,  with  little  gasps 
of  delight,  till  the  dressmaker  went  on  her  way. 

Sir  Paul  Chadwick  was  conscious  of  a  sud- 
den annoyance  and  uneasiness.  Yes,  he  sup- 
posed the  velvet  was  all  right,  if  she  thought  it 
matched,  he  said  to  the  assistant.  He  was 
tired  of  his  morning's  shopping,  and  he  glanced 
with  uneasy  surmise  at  the  door  of  the  room  be- 
hind which  the  bride  was  being  fitted  with  her 
wedding-gown. 

He  walked  to  the  end  of  the  shop  to  wait  for 
his  bill.  While  he  stood  by  the  cashier's  desk 
he  watched  the  door  of  the  fitting-room.  He 
wanted  to  be  sure  who  it  was  that  was  being 
fitted.  He  filled  the  cheque,  gave  the  address 
to  which  the  goods  were  to  be  sent,  and  still 
the  door  had  not  opened.  He  had  no  excuse 
for  waiting,  but  he  waited,  the  obliging  cashier 
helping  him  by  a  running  dissertation  on  the 
things  of  the  hour,  to  which  he  answered  some- 
what at  random. 


BETTY'S  FAIRING  267 

Ah — at  last!  Just  as  he  had  felt  that  he 
must  go,  he  saw  the  door  of  the  fitting-room 
open.  The  cashier,  who  was  a  cheerful  gossip 
and  led  a  dreary  life  in  this  upper  wilderness  of 
fitting-rooms,  broached  a  new  subject.  The 
door  of  the  fitting-room  opened,  and  there  came 
out,  as  he  had  known  there  would,  the  two  he 
had  been  waiting  for.  There  was  a  little  third 
person  with  them,  a  head  lower  than  they.  He 
did  not  notice  the  insignificant  presence. 

He  held  back  while  they  went  down  the 
stairs.  He  followed  them  to  the  lower  shop, 
amid  the  throng  of  pushing  and  striving 
women.  He  heard  a  comment  here  and  there 
on  their  height  and  beauty.  When  he  reached 
the  door  they  were  almost  unmediately  in  front 
of  him.  He  waited,  inspecting  with  apparent 
interest  a  row  of  tortoise-shell  combs. 

Some  one  joined  them — the  bounder!  The 
bounder  in  radiant  humor.  His  coarse,  cheer- 
ful voice  came  to  Sir  Paul's  ears. 

"We  shall  lunch  at  the  Dolphin,"  he  said; 
"unless  you  prefer  somewhere  else." 

Sir  Paul  had  intended  to  lunch  at  the  Shel- 
bourne  if  Ciss  and  Cecilia  had  honored  him 
with  their  company.  He  was  old-fashioned. 
In  his  day  ladies  had  not  dined  in  public  restau- 
rants, cheek  by  jowl  with  any  fellow  who  cared 
to  pay  for  the  privilege. 

He  saw  them  move  down  the  street  as  he  left 


^68  BETTY'S  FAIRING 

the  doorway,  and  lie  turned  the  other  way  in 
a  sudden  fury.  If  Cecilia  had  only  chosen  a 
gentleman!  His  indignation  involved  Ciss  as 
well  as  Maurice  Grace.  Good  heavens,  what 
a  husband  for  an  exquisite  creature  like  Cecilia ! 

He  moved  along  the  crowded  pavement  see- 
ing nothing,  nobody,  he  passed.  He  was  a 
country  member  of  the  Kildare  Street  Club, 
but  he  didn't  feel  like  talking  to  his  friends  and 
acquaintances  at  the  moment.  Stephen's 
Green  presented  itself  to  him  as  a  harbor  of 
refuge.  He  crossed  over  and  found  a  seat 
under  a  golden  tree  which  he  had  to  himself. 
The  place  was  less  crowded  than  it  would  have 
been  in  the  summer. 

He  gazed  moodily  before  him,  at  the  stretch 
of  ornamental  water,  the  greedy  ducks  gob- 
bling the  bread  which  some  children  were 
throwing  to  them,  at  the  children  themselves, 
without  seeing  them.  He  was  intensely  an- 
noyed and  irritated.  He  ought  to  have  let 
the  past  be.  To  find  Ciss  and  Cecilia  in  such 
a  milieu  was  intolerable. 

Beyond  the  railings  of  the  green  a  barrel- 
organ  struck  up  its  hard,  mechanical  tune  that 
silenced  the  late  songs  of  the  birds. 

One  of  the  Mttle  girls  who  had  given  her  last 
crumb  to  an  insatiable  drake  caught  her  little 
skirt  between  her  hands.  She  had  golden- 
brown  eyes  and  golden-brown  hair,  fair  warm 


BETTY'S  FAIRING  269 

skin,  with  a  thought  of  brown  in  it;  the  color- 
ing was  hke  Betty's.  Lifting  her  Httle  feet 
prettily,  she  began  to  dance  to  the  organ.  It 
was  Betty  to  the  life.  So  had  Betty  danced 
through  her  childhood.  Why,  even  now  she 
walked  as  though  her  little  feet  longed  to 
dance.  As  he  watched  the  child  he  smiled,  be- 
cause he  thought  of  Betty.  He  had  always 
brought  Betty  a  fairing  when  he  paid  his  infre- 
quent visits  to  town.  Pretty  Betty  should 
have  her  fairing.  He  had  all  but  forgotten  it 
for  thinking  of  Cecilia.  Were  they  all  to  for- 
get Betty  for  thinking  of  Cecilia? 

He  glanced  at  his  watch.  Lunch-time,  and 
he  was  aware  that  he  was  hungry.  He  would 
surprise  McClellan.  Afterwards  he  would 
spend  an  hour  hunting  the  curio-shops  on  the 
quays  for  a  fairing  for  Betty.  And  he  would 
go  home  to-night.  There  would  be  plenty  of 
time  to  do  everything  and  catch  the  night-mail. 
Dubhn  was  a  wilderness  to  him;  he  had  been 
so  long  out  of  it.  He  was  sick  of  it ;  it  would 
be  good  to  get  home. 

He  went  off  with  quite  a  brisk  step  to  his 
friend's  house.  It  was  astonishing  how  that 
thought  of  finding  Betty  a  fairing  had  cheered 
him  up.  He  imagined  the  pleasure  in  Betty's 
brown  eyes,  that  had  been  sad  of  late.  Con- 
found Kilrush!  How  dared  he  make  Betty 
sad! 


9.70  BETTY'S  FAIRING 

He  was  lucky  in  finding  just  the  fairing 
that  Betty  would  like — an  old  brooch  of  a 
single  amethyst,  surrounded  by  seed  pearls. 
When  he  had  put  it  in  his  breast-pocket  he 
seemed  to  find  it  quite  warm  there.  A  mem- 
ory occurred  to  him  of  a  certain  outdoor  ex- 
pedition of  long  ago,  at  which  Betty,  then  a 
young  lady  of  six  summers,  had  fallen  asleep 
after  much  gaiety  and  had  been  carried  home 
in  his  arms.  He  remembered  quite  well  how 
warmly  th€  little  gold-brown  head  had  rested 
upon  his  shoulder. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

FELLOW-TRAVELERS 

Rather  to  his  disgust  Sir  Paul  was  not 
destined  to  have  a  sohtaiy  journey.  Just  at 
the  last — while  he  waited  for  the  whistle  to 
sound,  when  he  had  settled  himself  comfort- 
ably in  his  corner  of  the  railway-carriage  with 
the  intention  of  sleeping  away  the  hours  of  the 
journey,  the  carriage  door  was  opened :  a  porter 
pushed  in  a  gun-case,  a  bundle  of  rugs  and 
golf -sticks,  and  another  passenger  jum^^ed  in. 

"Hullo!     You  back,  Kilrush?" 

"Yes,  the  sport  was  unsatisfactory,  and  I 
didn't  care  to  give  England  any  more  of  my 
holiday.  How  lucky  that  we  should  be  fel- 
low-travelers." 

Sir  Paul  relaxed  to  Kilrush's  charming 
smile. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  is  lucky,"  he  said.  "I 
had  rather  looked  forward  to  a  quiet  night. 
But  you  are  a  better  companion  than  most." 

"And  I  will  let  you  sleep  when  you  will. 
It's  too  early  to  sleep  yet.     Have  a  cigar?" 

After  all,  Kilrush  was  a  pleasant  companion. 
They  fell  into  easy  talk  over  their  cigars,  while 

271 


272  FELLOW-TRAVELERS 

the  train  screamed  and  tore  away  through  the 
moonlit  country,  past  towns  and  villages  and 
quiet  fields,  past  bogs  that  reflected  the  moon's 
face  in  a  thousand  mirrors,  by  many  a  little 
coppice  and  lit  homestead. 

"You  are  going  home?  To  Kilrush 
Manor?" 

"For  a  day  or  two.  I  have  business.  Her 
incessantty  active  ladyship  will  need  my  at- 
tendance next  week.  I  shall  probably  look  in 
at  the  House  of  Dromore  on  my  way  up  to 
Dublin." 

"I  saw  them  all  a  few  days  ago — all  except 
Betty.     Betty  is  at  Kilkee." 

"I  know.  I  am  glad  she  is  there.  She  was 
looking  a  bit  off -color — didn't  you  think?" 

Confound  the  fellow!  Was  he  such  a  fool 
a's  not  to  know  that  Bettj^'s  being  off -color 
had  coincided  with  his  own  very  marked  at- 
tentions to  Betty's  cousin?  He  wasn't  worth 
Betty's  being  off -color  for.  Xo  one  would  be 
worth  it.  Confound  youth  and  its  egoism! 
Sir  Paul  was  all  in  a  pother  because  of  Kil- 
rush's  speech  about  Betty.  His  nearly  fifty 
years  of  life  had  not  curbed  his  impulsiveness. 
He  had  a  sudden  desire  now  to  punish  Kilrush 
as  he  himself  had  been  punished. 

"By  the  way,  I  have  seen  Miss  Grace  while 
I  have  been  staying  up  in  town,"  he  said. 

Kilrush    looked    up    at    him    with    an    air 


FELLOW-TRAVELERS  273 

of  bright  interest  and  his  color  changed 
sHghtly. 

"Ah,  you  saw  her?"  he  said. 

"Yes;  I  saw  her  and  her  beautiful  mother. 
Her  father,  too.  He  is  an  interesting 
fellow." 

"I  shall  see  her,  I  hope,  next  week,"  Kilrush 
said;  and  there  was  a  sudden  lift  in  his  voice 
as  though  at  the  thought  he  had  grown  light- 
hearted. 

He  smiled  down  at  the  cigar  he  was  hold- 
ing between  his  fingers;  and  Sir  Paul  had  a 
revelation.  Kilrush  was  not  vacillating  be- 
tween Betty  and  Cecilia  then,  as  he  had  thought 
with  sharp  indignation.  Confound  the  fellow! 
how  far  had  he  gone  with  Betty?  Was  he 
going  to  break  Betty's  little  heart?  The 
thought  made  him  restless.  After  all  it  had 
grown  to  be  the  habit  of  years  with  him  to  con- 
sider Betty  first. 

"Next  week,"  he  said.  "Why,  she  may  be 
a  bride  next  week.  Her  wedding-dress  is  in 
the  making." 

"What!"  Kilrush  turned  darkly  red  and 
then  unusually  pale  for  him.  His  eyes 
blazed. 

"You  were  saj^ing,"  he  said  in  a  thick 
voice,  "that  Cecilia,  that  Miss  Grace.  .  .  . 
You  are  surely  mistaken." 

Sir    Paul's    anger    melted    to    compassion. 


274.  FELLOW-TRAVELERS 

For  the  moment  Betty  was  out  of  his  mind. 
The  evident  fear  and  suffering  in  Kih'ush's  face 
touched  him.  He  had  always  hked  the  lad  and 
thought  well  of  him. 

"My  poor  boy!"  he  said,  and  he  put  a 
fatherly  hand  on  Kilrush's  shoulder:  "I'm 
afraid  there  is  no  mistake.  Put  her  out  of 
your  head.  She  is  going  to  be  married  to  her 
cousin.  I  confess  it  seems  a  shameful  sacrifice. 
He  is  not  a  gentleman;  quite  otherwise.  I 
don't  know  what  her  parents  are  thinking 
about.  I  fear  it  is  too  late,  or  I  might  ask 
Lady  Dromore  to  exert  her  influence.  It  is 
a  deplorable  thing." 

Kilrush  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  at  Sir 
Paul :  they  were  bloodshot.  A  wave  of  suffer- 
ing seemed  to  have  passed  over  his  face,  dis- 
turbing and  marring  its  debonair  beauty. 

"Do  you  mean  an  impossible  bounder  who 
is  called  Bernard  Grace?  I  had  to  protect 
Miss  Grace  from  his  insolence  the  day  we  trav- 
eled down  together.     Not  that  fellow?" 

"That  is  the  man." 

"I  won't  believe  it — unless  she  tells  me." 

He  stood  up  and  walked  to  the  other  end  of 
the  carriage  as  though  he  would  hide  his  face. 
For  a  few  seconds  he  stood  there,  staring  out 
apparently  at  the  moonlit  landscape,  while  his 
fellow-traveler  gazed  in  his  direction  with  an 
air  of  grave  compassion  and  a  growing  con- 


FELLOW-TRAVELERS  275 

cern.  The  thought  of  Betty,  never  long 
absent,  returned  to  his  mind.  So  Betty  was 
out  of  it;  perhaps,  indeed,  never  had  been  in 
it.  Kilrush  had  come  and  gone  as  freely  as 
himself  at  the  House  of  Dromore.  He  and 
Betty  had  danced  together,  played  tennis  to- 
gether, ridden  together,  fished  together,  hunted 
together.  They  had  many  tastes  and  pursuits 
in  common;  yet,  might  it  not  be  that  Kilrush 
had  not  really  singled  out  Betty  from  her 
sisters?  The  others  were  preoccupied,  the  one 
with  her  lover,  the  other  with  her  father  and 
with  her  serious  purpose  in  life.  Was  it  not 
natural  that  Betty  and  Kilrush  should  have 
fallen  into  the  relationship  of  comrades  ?  And 
was  it  therefore  inevitable  that  they  should 
become  lovers  ? 

Setting  his  mind  to  look  back.  Sir  Paul 
realized  that  he  had  never  seen  word  or  look 
that  would  prove  Kilrush  to  be  Betty's  lover. 
Perhaps  he  had  been  deceived,  perhaps  Betty's 
mother  had  been  deceived,  into  taking  com- 
radeship for  love,  since  they  both  held  Betty 
to  be  so  sweet  a  thing  that  they  could  not  but 
believe  any  man  much  in  her  society  to  be  in 
love  with  her. 

And  poor  Bettj^ — Betty's  altered  looks  this 
summer  had  made  it  plain  to  them  that  Betty 
had  given  her  heart  to  one  who  seemed  to  hold 
it  lightly.     They  had  never  sj^oken  about  it, 


276  FELLOW-TRAVELERS 

Betty's  mother  and  Betty's  loyal  friend,  but 
each  had  felt  that  the  other  understood  and 
was  in  trouble  for  Betty. 

To  be  sure  Kilrush  must  have  loved  Betty  if 
Cecilia  had  not  come.  And  now  that  he  must 
give  up  thinking  of  Cecilia,  would  not  his  heart 
in  the  rebound  turn  naturally  to  Betty?  Per- 
haps things  would  all  come  right  in  the  end 
for  Betty  and  everybody.  As  for  himself,  he 
would  harbor  no  more  matrimonial  ideas. 
What  an  old  fool  he  had  been  to  think  that 
at  his  age  a  girl  like  Cecilia  would  look  at  him! 
And  }^et  he  would  have  been  better  than  her 
choice.  He  dragged  his  mind  abruptly  from 
thinking  on  Cecilia's  choice.  That  made  un- 
pleasant thinking. 

Kilrush  turned  about  from  his  inspection  of 
the  landscape  and  sat  down  again  in  his  seat 
opposite  Sir  Paul. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  am  going  to  do?"  he 
said.  "I  am  going  to  take  the  next  train  back 
to  Dublin  to  see  for  myself.  If  it  is  true,  what 
you  tell  me,  she  ought  to  be  saved  from  her- 
self. It  is  too  awful!  I  don't  know  how  I 
am  going  to  do  it,  but  I  am  going  to  try." 

In  the  dim  light  of  the  carriage  his  face 
showed  convulsed. 

"My  poor  lad,  what  can  you  do?"  Sir  Paul 
answered  him.  Then  he  spoke  on  impulse. 
"Don't  go.     Go  to  Betty,  to  Kilkee.     She  will 


FELLOW-TRAVELERS  277 

comfort  you.  Why  need  any  one  to  whom 
Betty  is  kmd  break  his  heart  for  Ceciha?" 

Kih-ush  stared  at  him,  and  broke  into  an 
unhappy  laugh. 

"Why  should  I  go  to  Betty?"  he  asked. 
"To  be  sure  she  is  a  good  little  comrade,  and 
would  be  sorry  for  me.  But  how  should  she 
make  me  forget  Cecilia?" 

Sir  Paul  looked  away  from  him. 

"That  is  for  you  to  say,  Kilrush,"  he  an- 
swered, stirring  uneasily  because  Betty's  secret 
was  under  discussion.  What  would  Betty  say 
if  she  knew?  She  would  probably  never  for- 
give him. 

Again  Kilrush  laughed,  and  there  was  some- 
thing of  sad  amusement  in  the  sound. 

"Do  vou  Q'o  and  tell  her  about  it,  Sir  Paul," 
he  said.  "I  daresay  Betty  is  rather  lonely  by 
this  time,  and  would  be  glad  to  see  a  friend's 
face.     It  must  be  getting  late  for  the  sad  sea 


waves." 


The  speech  stirred  a  certain  joyful  excite- 
ment into  life  in  the  elder  man's  heart.  He 
had  not  thought  of  carrying  his  fairing  to  Betty 
at  Kilkee.  But  after  all  why  should  he  not? 
Betty  would  be  very  glad  to  see  him.  And  he 
could  satisfy  himself  as  to  how  Bettj^  was  look- 
ing. It  was  impossible  for  a  girl  of  Betty's 
spirit,  he  hoped,  to  go  on  grieving  for  a  man 
who  was  madlv  in  love  with  another  girl. 


278  FELLOW-TRAVELERS 

"She  may  have  returned  home,"  he  said 
sedately. 

"She  is  there  for  another  fortnight,"  Kil- 
rush  rephed.  "I  heard  from  my  aunt  the  other 
day.  Even  the  House  of  Dromore  v^ill  be  very 
lonely  without  Betty.  On  the  whole,  I  am 
rather  glad  that  I  am  not  going  to  he  there." 

After  a  time  they  relapsed  into  silence.  As 
the  night  went  on,  Sir  Paul  dozed  fitfully. 
Every  time  he  awoke  he  saw  Kilrush  sitting 
bolt  upright  staring  straight  before  him. 

Some  time  in  the  chilliest  hour  of  the  early 
morning  the  train  ran  into  their  station.  The 
two  men  got  out  and  a  sleepy  porter  came  to 
take  their  luggage.  It  was  a  most  uncomfort- 
able hour  at  which  to  arrive,  while  yet  all  the 
world  was  asleep.  The  oil-lamps  of  the  sta- 
tion flickered  and  flared  in  the  high  wind.  It 
would  not  be  daylight  yet  for  some  hours. 
They  were  the  only  passengers  to  alight;  and 
as  they  stood  on  the  platform,  their  hands  deep 
in  their  overcoat  pockets,  both  men  were  sensi- 
ble of  the  raw  atmosphere  and  the  discourag- 
ing chill  of  the  early  morning. 

"Don't  go  home,  Kilrush,"  Sir  Paul  said. 
"Come  with  me  to  Arlo.  I  shall  be  glad  of 
your  society,  and  you  can  start  as  early  from 
Arlo  as  from  j^our  own  house." 

Kilrush  consented,  the  more  readily  because 
his  own  carriage  had  not  arrived.     Besides,  he 


FELLOW-TRAVELERS  279 

wanted  to  hear  more  from  Sir  Paul  of  his  meet- 
ing with  Ceciha  and  the  things  that  had  hap- 
pened. He  would  return  to  Dublin  by  the 
midday  train,  getting  in  some  time  in  the  after- 
noon. 

The  morning  post  brought  a  letter  for  Sir 
Paul  from  Lady  Dromore.  There  was  an  en- 
closure which  he  read  with  knitted  brows. 
They  were  alone  in  the  breakfast-room,  ex- 
cept for  a  rabble  of  dogs  on  the  hearthrug. 

"My  dear  Paul: 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  the  enclosed 
from  Cecilia?  I  cannot  make  it  out.  Will 
you  come  to  me,  if  you  have  returned,  and  tell 
me  about  Ciss  and  Cecilia  ?  I  am  impatient  to 
know  all  that  has  happened.  Perhaps  you  can 
put  a  happier  complexion  on  the  letter  than 
it  presents  at  this  moment.  Is  it  possible  the 
poor  child  has  some  undesirable  entanglement 
with  some  one  quite  unfitted  for  her?  I  pray 
not.  But  you  will  tell  me  everything. 
"Always  your  friend. 

"Edith  Dromore." 

Sir  Paul  read  aloud  Lady  Dromore's  letter, 
and  a  portion  of  the  letter  she  enclosed  from 
Cecilia:  not  all.  He  had  a  shyness  about  let- 
ting Kilrush  know  that,  at  his  age,  he  had 
hoped  to  win  Cecilia. 


S80  FELLOW-TRAVELERS 

"I'm  afraid  it  is  strong  corroboration,"  said 
Kilrush,  listening  quietly:  "perhaps  I  might 
just  as  well  do  my  business  here  and  go  back 
to  Sussex.  I  more  than  half  promised  them 
to  return." 

He  smiled,  but  he  was  very  pale,  and  the 
elder  man  looked  at  him  with  sympathy. 

"You  accept  her  own  letter?" 

"I  fear  I  must,  taken  in  conjunction  with 
other  things.  What  you  told  me  was  possibly 
capable  of  another  explanation.  Then — she 
would  not  listen  to  me  when  I  saw  her  some 
weeks  ago.  It  never  occurred  to  me  that  there 
was  any  one  else.  I  thought  onty  that  she  was 
not  ready.     She  is  such  a  nun-like  creature." 

He  gi'oaned  as  he  said  it,  with  the  thought 
of  Cecilia  married  to  Bernard  Grace.  Once 
again  he  could  not  face  another  man's  eyes,  but 
got  up  from  the  table  and  went  and  stood  by 
the  window.  Coming  back  again  after  a  few 
minutes  of  silence  his  forehead  was  damp  as 
though  he  had  been  through  acute  physical  suf- 
fering. 

"She  told  me  I  was  not  to  come  back,"  he 
said. 

"Ah,  I  did  not  know  she  had  refused  you. 
That  would  have  been  conclusive  evidence  in 
itself." 

"I  don't  know  even  now  that  I  ought  not  to 
go  and  make  one  more  struggle  for  her,"  Kil- 


FELLOW-TRAVELERS  281 

rush  said.  "If  I  do  not,  perhaps  afterwards 
I  shall  feel  like  the  fellow  in  the  poem. 

'Why,  better  even  have  burst  like  a  thief 
And  borne  you  away  to  a  rock  for  us  two 

In  a  moment's  horror,  bright,  bloody,  and  brief. 
Then  changed  to  myself  again ;  I  slew 

Myself  in  that  moment:  a  ruffian  lies 

Somewhere:  your  slave,  see,  born  in  his  place.' 

There's  a  deal  of  the  natural  man  in  the  most 
civilized  of  us,  Chadwick,  when  it  comes  to 
another  man  taking  the  woman  we  love." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Sir  Paul  said,  glancing  at 
the  eyes,  bright  with  pain,  in  the  wrung  and 
tortured  face — "I've  lived  through  it." 

For  a  few  seconds  there  was  silence  in  the 
room,  broken  only  by  the  sound  of  Kilrush's 
fingers  as  they  beat  a  tattoo  restlessly  on  the 
table-cloth. 

"How  did  the  father  strike  you,  Chad- 
wick?" he  asked  suddenly.  "Not  a  man  to 
make  an  iron  bargain  for  his  only  child,  and 
stick  to  it,  eh?" 

"Not  at  all.  He  has  made  his  wife  happy. 
He  seemed  devoted  to  his  wife  and  daughter." 

"I  might  see  him.  No  use  troubling  her, 
when  she  has  already  given  me  her  answer." 

"Yes,  you  might  see  him.  If  you  knew  you 
had  done  all  possible.     .     .     ." 

"It  might  help  me  to  face  the  thing.     I  was 


282  FELLOW-TRAVELERS 

never  one  for  sitting  down  inactive  where  there 
was  anything  to  be  done." 

"It  is  worst  of  all  when  there  is  nothing  to 
be  done,"  Sir  Paul  said,  and  his  eyes  seemed  as 
though  they  remembered  old  sorrows. 

"But  afterwards,  Kilrush,"  he  said,  "after- 
wards, when  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  done, 
you  will  take  it  like  a  man,  my  lad?" 

"I  sha'n't  get  drunk  or  go  to  the  devil,  even 
temporarily,  if  that  is  what  you  mean,  though 
I  can  understand  the  temptation  such  things 
present  to  the  rejected  lover." 

Kilrush  was  to  drive  to  Killarney,  where  he 
should  catch  the  midday  express  to  Dublin,  so 
saving  a  slow  branch-line  connection.  On  the 
way  he  made  a  detour  to  drop  Sir  Paul  Chad- 
wick  at  the  gates  of  the  House  of  Dromore. 

"Give  my  love  to  them  all,"  he  said.  "I 
shall  have  to  come  back  in  a  day  or  two  to  at- 
tend to  business,  and  I  shall  see  them.  I  shall 
let  you  know  how  things  go  with  me." 

What  Lord  Kilrush  had  not  reckoned  with 
was  that  as  he  drove  at  top  speed  along  a  road 
with  deep  ditches  to  either  side  of  it,  they 
should  encounter  a  motor-car  in  which  a  neigh- 
boring landowner's  chauffeur  was  taking  a 
couple  of  his  friends  for  a  spin,  and  going 
faster  than  he  would  have  dared  to  do  on  roads 
where  he  might  have  met  a  policeman.  Kil- 
rush's  driver  swerved  sharply  to  one  side  to 


FELLOW-TRAVELERS  283 

avert  a  collision.  The  horse  just  cleared  the 
motor,  but  the  car  was  overturned  and  the  oc- 
cupants tumbled  into  the  left-hand  ditch,  the 
horse  and  car  a-top  of  them.  Kilrush  fell  not 
altogether  clear  of  the  horse's  hoofs,  one  of 
which  kicked  him  in  the  head — a  most  un- 
chancy thing,  according  to  the  driver,  who  had 
seen  many  such  spills  on  the  same  road  with- 
out any  untoward  consequences. 

"The  last  one,"  he  remarked,  "that  I  seen 
spilt  was  an  American  admiral,  that  was  after 
being  terrible  say-sick,  the  poor  man,  on  the 
Lakes  o'  Killarney.  He  fell  so  soft  he  thought 
he  was  in  his  bunk,  and  began  singin'  'Rock 
me  to  sleep,  mother.'  " 

For  several  days  after  that  Kilrush  was  quite 
indifferent  to  the  world  at  large,  quite  obliv- 
ious of  what  things  might  be  hapx^ening  in 
Dublin  or  elsewhere. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ON    THE    CLIFFS 

Sir  Paul  Chadavick,  meanwhile,  had 
lunched  at  the  House  of  Dromore  and  had 
had  a  talk  with  Lady  Dromore.  For  once  in 
his  life — he  hardly  knew  why — he  was  inclined 
to  be  impatient  of  Lady  Dromore's  gentle  sym- 
pathy, expressed  though  it  was  by  looks  rather 
than  by  words.  Lady  Dromore  was  shocked 
at  what  he  had  to  tell  her  about  Cecilia's  com- 
ing marriage. 

"I'm  afraid  the  poor  child  must  have  had 
this  dreadful  entanglement  before  she  came  to 
us,"  she  said,  "and  I  blame  myself  for  it.  I 
ought  not  to  have  been  put  off  years  ago  when 
I  listened  to  poor  Ciss's  mother-in-law.  Yet 
what  she  said  seemed  reasonable,  or  I  should 
not  have  listened  to  it.  I  never  was  fonder 
of  Ciss  than  when  I  gave  her  up." 

"Ah,  what  was  that?  You  have  not  told 
me." 

"Old  Mrs.  Grace — she  struck  me  as  being 
very  shrewd,  and  she  was  certainly  devoted  to 
Ciss — she  said  to  me  one  day  that  my  coming 


286  ON  THE  CLIFFS 

and  going  affected  poor  Ciss  badly;  that  she 
was  restless  for  a  long  time  afterwards;  that 
she  had  only  begun  to  be  happy  when  I  came 
again.  'Let  her  be,'  she  said,  'she  can't  be- 
long to  two  worlds.  Let  her  belong  to  her 
husband's.'  It  was  quite  true,  and  most  un- 
willingly I  went  no  more  to  see  poor  Ciss.  I 
have  never  heard  that  she  missed  me.  It  has 
been  all  so  difficult.  We  could  not  ask  Ciss 
here  because     .     .     ." 

"Because  she  belonged  to  her  husband's 
world  and  because  he  would  have  made  an  odd 
figure  in  yours?" 

"Not  that,"  Lady  Dromore  said,  almost  with 
indignation.  "There  may  have  been  a  time 
when  I  thought  that.  But  not  after  I  came 
to  know  Dr.  Grace.  Any  woman  must  have 
been  moved  by  a  man  who  loved  so  well  as 
he  did — any  woman  worth  considering.  Tell 
me — you  saw  him:  what  have  the  years  made 
of  him?  He  had  possibilities.  The  last  time 
I  saw  him  he  seemed  to  be  on  the  way  to  over- 
take them." 

"He  has  overtaken  them.  He  has  a  good 
face,  a  good,  anxious,  kind,  trustworthy  face. 
His  wife  sees  nothing  amiss  with  him." 

"And  you  really  think  that  Ciss  is  happy?" 

*'She  is  quite  happy.  I  will  tell  you  what 
you  want  to  know  and  are  shy  about  asking 
me.     My  memory  is  quite  blotted  out  of  Mrs. 


ON  THE  CLIFFS  287 

Grace's  heart.  She  has  eyes  only  for  her  hus- 
band. But  she  has  not  forgotten  you.  She 
asked  eagerly  for  all  I  could  tell  her  about  you 
and  yours." 

"My  poor  Ciss !  I  must  see  her.  And  they 
must  come  to  us  here.  The  gulf  between  us 
has  lasted  too  long." 

Sir  Paul  shook  his  head. 

"I  would  let  it  be.  You  may  be  quite  will- 
ing to  receive  Ciss's  husband.  You  will  hardly 
be  willing  to  receive  Cecilia's." 

"Oh,  that  horror!  I  can  hardly  believe  it. 
What  will  Betty  think?  She  is  so  fond  of 
her  cousin:  it  will  be  a  terrible  shock  to  her. 
By  the  way,  Kilrush  knew  she  was  still  at  Kil- 
kee?  How  odd  that  he  should  have  flown  back 
like  that!  Who  would  be  a  vice-regal  aid-de- 
camp, with  the  present  energetic  administra- 
tion at  Court?" 

Sir  Paul  noticed  the  connection  in  Lady 
Dromore's  mind  between  Betty  and  Kilrush. 
Knowing  what  he  knew,  it  was  perhaps  quite 
natural  that  he  should  feel  nettled.  He  said 
to  himself  that  it  was  unlike  Edith  Dromore's 
delicacy  and  distinction  of  mind  to  be  ready 
to  give  such  a  daughter  as  Betty  to  a  man  who 
had  not  asked  for  her.  Why  would  the  minds 
of  women  hurry  on  to  anticipate  things  which 
were  never  to  haA^e  an  existence? 

"I  was  thinking  of  running  down   to  see 


288  ON  THE  CLIFFS 

Betty,"  he  said.  *'I  will  tell  her  about 
Cecilia." 

It  was  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world 
that  Sir  Paul  should  run  down  to  see  Betty. 
They  had  been  close  friends  and  intimates 
since  Betty's  charming  childhood,  when  she  had 
danced  her  way  into  Sir  Paul's  sore  heart. 
The  milestones  in  Betty's  life  were  marked  by 
Sir  Paul's  gifts  and  graces  to  Betty.  Her 
first  pony,  her  first  watch,  the  first  puppy  to 
belong  absolutely  to  her,  had  been  Sir  Paul's 
gifts;  he  had  kept  her  innocent  book-shelves 
stocked;  he  had  supplied  her  with  sweets;  he 
had  discovered  new  and  delightful  flowers  for 
her  garden.  He  had  always  been  Betty's 
friend. 

"Persuade  them  to  come  back,"  Lady  Dro- 
more  said.  "The  fine  weather  has  broken  up 
early.  It  is  time  for  their  own  firesides.  Per- 
haps you  will  give  them  an  escort?" 

"I  shall  be  delighted  to  look  after  them." 

Sir  Paul  had  said  nothing  about  Kilrush  and 
Cecilia.  That  was  Kilrush's  secret,  which  only 
he  himself  was  at  liberty  to  tell.  But  now 
Lady  Dromore  touched  upon  it. 

"Kilrush  seemed  to  like  Cecilia  very  much," 
she  said,  with  a  little  blush.  "I  know  Betty 
thought  that  he  was  in  love  with  Cecilia.  He 
will  be  very  much  shocked  and  disgusted  at  her 
marriage." 


ON  THE  CLIFFS  289 

"There  will  be  many  ready  to  console  Kil- 
rush,"  Sir  Paul  said,  with  a  little  bitterness. 
He  was  not  one  to  be  jealous  of  the  gifts  of 
other  men,  but  it  was  a  moment  in  which  he 
felt  jarred,  he  hardly  knew  why,  a  moment  in 
which  another  man's  youth  seemed  to  him  an 
enviable  possession. 

Kilrush's  accident  had  occurred  some  two  or 
three  miles  from  the  House  of  Dromore,  which 
was  the  nearest  house  of  any  importance,  and 
two  miles  nearer  than  Kilrush's  own  house. 

It  happened  that  Dr.  Brady,  driving  on  his 
outside  car  to  a  bad  case  in  the  mountains,  came 
upon  the  scene  of  the  accident  almost  imme- 
diately after  it  had  occurred.  He  caught  the 
chauffeur  of  the  motor-car  just  starting  his 
engines. 

"You  will  take  this  gentleman  who  has  been 
hurt  to  the  House  of  Dromore,"  he  said,  "and 
myself  along  with  him.  The  horse  and  car 
can  follow  at  its  own  pace." 

The  chauffeur  demurred.  He  explained  in 
voluble  French  that  he  had  to  meet  his  master 
at  an  afternoon  train. 

"You'll  never  meet  him,"  said  Dr.  Brady 
with  startling  ferocity,  "if  you  don't  do  ex- 
actly as  I  tell  you.  Here,  give  me  those 
cushions." 

He  spoke  in  an  argot  which  he  had  learned 
when  he  walked  a  Paris  hospital  in  the  old 


290  ON  THE  CLIFFS 

great  days,  when  he  looked  to  be  a  specialist 
in  nervous  diseases  and  a  girl  at  home  believed 
in  him. 

The  chauffeur,  alarmed,  did  as  he  was  bid- 
den, and  the  injured  man  was  conveyed  as 
gently  as  might  be  to  the  House  of  Dromore. 
The  doctor  got  him  to  bed,  made  a  hurried  ex- 
amination, then  turned  to  Lady  Dromore  who 
was  standing  by,  anxiously. 

"He'll  take  no  harm  now  for  a  few  hours," 
he  said,  "and  they've  scouts  out  looking  for  me 
above  on  the  hill.  I've  got  to  see  a  poor 
woman  through  her  trouble.  As  soon  as  I  can 
I'll  come  back.  I  don't  think,  your  ladyship, 
that  we  need  be  ordering  his  funeral  yet." 

He  gave  a  few  simple  directions  about  his 
patient  and  drove  away  as  fast  as  his  little 
mare  could  carry  him,  his  too-florid  face  anx- 
ious and  troubled,  for  all  his  cheerful  words. 

Somewhere  about  lunch-time  next  daj'^  Sir 
Paul  Chadwick  got  to  Kilkee.  As  he  walked 
along  the  sands  to  the  hotel  he  met  Mrs.  Chap- 
man, to  whom  he  had  to  tell  of  the  accident 
to  Kilrush.  It  was  a  mild,  bright  autumn 
morning,  and  the  lady  had  been  spending  the 
morning  on  the  sands  reading  a  novel. 

"And  you  tell  me  there's  nothing  very 
bad?"  she  said. 

"The  doctor  says  that  he  will  be  himself  in 
a  few  weeks'  time." 


ON  THE  CLIFFS  291 

"I'm  going  straight  back  to  the  House  of 
Dromore  to  see  him  myself." 

"And  I'm  going  to  be  your  escort.  Where 
is  Betty?" 

Mrs.  Chapman  turned  and  looked  anxiously 
in  the  direction  of  the  cliffs. 

"She's  gone  off  for  a  walk  along  the  sands. 
Do  you  see  any  sign  of  her?"  she  asked. 

"None:  I  shall  go  to  meet  her." 

"The  tide  is  running  in  fast." 

"I  shall  meet  her  and  bring  her  back  long 
before  the  tide  gets  in." 

He  set  out  walking  rapidly  towards  the 
cliffs.  The  season  was  over  and  the  place 
looked  strangely  deserted.  After  he  had 
passed  the  houses  the  sands  were  empty,  save 
for  the  flashing  sea-gulls  turning  in  the  wdnd 
against  the  face  of  the  gray  cliffs. 

He  looked  out  eagerly  for  Betty  as  he  went 
on.  He  expected  to  see  her  behind  every  jut- 
ting cliff  that  intercepted  his  view,  but  he 
rounded  one  after  the  other  and  there  was  no 
sign  of  her.  Like  all  such  places,  the  dis- 
tances were  very  deceptive.  He  seemed  to 
make  but  slow  progress  along  the  sands. 

Looking  back,  the  white  houses  of  the  town 
still  seemed  but  a  little  way  behind.  Looking 
ahead,  he  saw  nothing  but  cliffs — cliffs  and  the 
gulls  and  the  sea. 

The  tide  was  running  in  fast.     There  was 


292  ON  THE  CLIFFS 

a  silver  tongue  high  up  on  the  sands  in  front 
of  him.  Looking  back  he  saw  pools  filling  up 
where  he  had  just  walked  on  dry  sand. 

He  began  to  grow  anxious  about  the  tide. 
The  sea  was  rough  after  the  high  wind  of  yes- 
terday. There  was  not  so  much  as  a  fishing- 
boat  in  sight.  At  high  tide  the  sea,  he  knew, 
leaped  against  the  cliff -wall  and  filled  all  the 
caverns. 

He  was  obliged  to  move  higher,  out  of  the 
way  of  a  wave  that  ran  foaming  up  to  his  feet. 
Things  were  beginning  to  look  serious.  There 
were,  he  knew,  here  and  there,  steps  cut  in  the 
face  of  the  cliff,  natural  stairs  by  which  one 
might  ascend.  Some  of  them  ended  in  narrow 
paths  over  the  cliff,  but  gave  such  slender  foot- 
hold and  handhold  that  a  wave  leaping  higher 
than  its  fellows,  a  blast  of  wind,  a  momentary 
giddiness,  might  easily  dislodge  one. 

He  paused  for  a  second  or  two.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  Betty  had  been  wise  and  had  returned 
by  the  cliffs  and  not  by  the  sands.  It  would 
be  a  pity  if  he  should  get  drowned  for  noth- 
ing. He  had  been  in  tight  places  before, 
tighter  than  this,  and  he  was  not  afraid. 
Only  he  said  to  himself  that  it  would  be  a  sad 
blunder  if  he  should  be  drowned  and  die  out  of 
a  world  in  which  Betty  still  lived. 

Mechanically  he  put  his  hand  to  his  breast- 
pocket and  felt  the  morocco  case  of  Betty's 


ON  THE  CLIFFS  293 

fairing.  His  grasp  closed  over  it.  He  had  a 
vision  of  Betty's  ready  blush  and  her  delighted 
smile.  It  would  be  a  pity  if  Betty  were  now 
safe  and  sound  back  at  the  hotel  and  that  she 
was  not  to  receive  her  fairing  after  all. 

He  turned  about  and  glanced  back  towards 
the  town,  which  was  hidden  now  behind  the  pro- 
jecting cliffs.  Then  he  smiled  to  himself 
grimly:  there  was  no  question  of  prudence. 
He  was  in  for  it  now.  The  water  had 
reached  the  base  of  the  last  bastion  round 
which  he  had  come.  It  was  flinging  itself  high 
against  it.  As  he  looked  back  he  saw  the 
smoke  of  spray  flung  high  in  the  air. 

He  looked  towards  the  face  of  the  cliff.  The 
sea  was  swirling  now  about  his  feet.  He  had 
to  run  from  a  wave  that  caught  him  as  he 
ran.  Coming  again,  it  spread  more  widely. 
As  it  advanced  it  flung  itself  higher  and  higher ; 
as  it  receded  it  tore  down  stones  and  pebbles 
with  a  great  noise  of  sucking  and  churning. 

Setting  his  face  resolutely,  he  saw  ahead  of 
him — Betty.  She  looked  just  a  little  speck  of 
red  when  he  saw  her  first.  He  shouted  to  en- 
courage her  and  climbing  higher  out  of  the 
reach  of  the  waves  he  ran  as  fast  as  he  could 
towards  her,  over  the  sand  which  was  still 
smooth  and  hard  enough  at  the  foot  of  the 
cliffs. 

As  he  ran  he  noted  mechanically  the  for- 


294  ON  THE  CLIFFS 

mation  of  the  cliff.  There  was  nothing  that  did 
not  end  in  a  smooth  chff  face,  but  at  one  point 
the  waves  had  eaten  away  the  soHd  wall  into 
a  succession  of  narrow  terraces  rising  one 
above  the  other,  on  which  it  might  be  possible 
to  find  a  refuge  from  the  wind  and  the  waves. 
He  noticed  the  gulls  flying  about  the  face  of 
the  cliffs.  It  was  possible  there  might  be 
some  cavern,  some  fissure  up  there  into  wliich 
they  might  creep  till  help  reached  them. 

Now  he  and  Betty  were  close.  She  was 
very  pale  and  her  breath  came  sobbingly.  He 
could  hear  it  above  the  noise  of  the  sea  and  the 
crying  of  the  gulls.  Her  hair  had  got  loose 
under  her  flat  cap  and  was  lying  in  bronze 
masses  on  her  shoulders.  Reaching  to  him  she 
clung  to  him,  sobbing  in  his  arms. 

"Oh!  oh!"  she  sobbed.  "I  thought  I  was 
going  to  drown  alone,  not  a  soul  near  me.  Oh, 
wasn't  God  good  to  send  you?  How  shall  we 
ever  escape?" 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  he  said.  "I  am  here 
to  take  care  of  you.  They  will  send  help. 
Mrs.  Chapman  knows  the  way  we  have  gone. 
We  can  wait  for  it,  or  till  the  tide  turns,  up 
there.     You  will  be  quite  safe  with  me." 

The  blood  came  back  to  her  cheek. 

"I  am  not  at  all  afraid — with  you,"  she  said. 

He  thanked  Heaven  he  was  still  spare  and 
active — that  every  muscle  was  as  tense  as  a 


ON  THE  CLIFFS  295 

young  athlete's.  He  had  kept  himself  in  good 
physical  training,  although  he  had  led  a  stay- 
at-home  life. 

It  was  not  so  easj'^  as  it  had  looked  to  climb 
those  shelves.  There  was  nothing  but  sharp 
spines  of  rock  to  hold  on  by.  They  wounded 
and  slipped  through  the  fingers.  Where  one 
shelf  overhung  the  other  it  was  an  immense 
phj^sical  effort  to  drag  himself  up:  then  to  lie 
face  downward  and  help  Betty  to  follow  him. 
By  the  time  they  stood  on  the  third  shelf  his 
hands  were  torn  and  bleeding.  Betty  had  a 
gash  down  one  cheek.  They  were  both 
drenched  with  the  sea  which  Avas  leaping  at 
them  with  ever-increasing  violence.  They 
were  blinded  and  stunned  with  the  shock  and 
reverberation  of  the  waves,  and  were  glad  to 
stand  awhile  with  their  faces  towards  the  rock, 
gripping  Avhat  they  could  to  steady  them  as  the 
wave  retreated,  threatening  each  time  to  drag 
them  with  it. 

"We  cannot  stand  this  for  long,"  Sir  Paul 
said,  with  the  sea  in  his  eyes  and  throat.  "We 
must  work  along  tliis  ledge.  There  is  no 
climbing  higher  at  this  point.     Oh,  look  out!" 

A  bigger  wave  than  had  yet  come  drenched 
them.  He  had  flung  his  arm  round  Betty  as 
it  came,  steadying  himself  witli  the  other  hand 
grasping  a  spur  of  the  rock. 

"Better  let  me  go,"  she  sobbed.     "I  can't 


296  ON  THE  CLIFFS 

stand  much  more,  and  you  will  be  drowned 
too." 

After  the  big  wave  there  came  a  little  lull, 
when  the  waves  only  broke  in  spray  about 
their  feet.  While  the  respite  lasted  they  crept 
along  the  ledge  side  by  side,  their  faces  to  the 
cliff -wall.  The  ledge  widened  now,  and  as  the 
next  great  wave  broke  they  had  more  foothold 
to  withstand  it. 

In  front  of  them  was  a  spot  where  the  gulls 
were  disappearing  and  reappearing,  sailing  in 
and  out,  their  wide  wings  shining  through  the 
spray,  screaming  angrily  as  they  saw  the  hu- 
man intruders,  and  making  as  though  they 
would  beat  them  off  with  their  wings. 

Sir  Paul  uttered  in  his  throat  a  sound  which 
was  a  cry  of  extreme  thankfulness.  A  step 
or  two  and  there  was  a  fissure  in  the  cliff  full 
of  the  nests  of  the  gulls,  large  enough  to  receive 
them  both  standing. 

"Thank  God,  we  are  safe,"  he  said,  turning 
about  and  taking  Betty  into  his  arms.  She 
put  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  lay  on  his 
breast  with  her  eyes  shut.  The  gulls  were  still 
screaming  and  darting  about  them,  and  now 
and  again  they  were  drenched  with  spray,  but 
the  waves  could  not  dislodge  them.  They  were 
quite  safe  to  wait  there  till  the  tide  should  turn 
and  set  them  free. 

Sir  Paul  stood  stroking  the  drenched  head 


ON  THE  CLIFFS  29T 

against  his  breast.  His  little  Betty!  Why, 
how  foolish  he  had  been  to  be  dazzled  by 
Cecilia's  young  beauty!  He  had  loved  Betty 
all  the  time.  But  she — what  would  she  say  to- 
morrow when  they  were  back  in  safety?  Now 
she  was  exhausted,  overcome,  very  glad  to  turn 
to  him  for  comfort  and  reassurance.  But  to- 
morrow ? 

"In  a  few  hours'  time  the  tide  will  have  gone 
down  sufficiently  to  allow  us  to  escape,"  he  said. 
"My  dear,  you  are  drenched.  I  hope  you  will 
not  take  a  chill." 

Her  eyes  opened  and  looked  at  him,  then 
closed  again :  with  a  little  air  of  delicious  weari- 
ness she  settled  herself  closer  into  his  arms. 

"Only  for  you,"  she  said,  "the  waves  would 
have  been  battering  me  against  the  rocks  by 
this  time.  How  glad  I  was  to  see  you! 
When  I  saw  you  I  knew  I  was  saved.  It 
seemed  so  terribly  lonely  to  drown  like  that, 
and  I  so  young,  and  never  having  tasted  real 
hai^piness." 

"Betty,"  he  asked  in  a  whisper,  "who  is  it 
that  could  give  you  real  happiness?  I  have 
sometimes  thought  it  was — Kilrush?" 

She  leaned  her  head  back  on  his  shoulder 
and  her  wet  hair  was  drawn  across  his  lips. 

"Kilrush!"  she  repeated.  "Oh,  what  folly! 
Why  Kilrush  was  in  love  with  Cecilia.  I  have 
never  thought  of  Kilrush." 


298  ON  THE  CLIFFS 

"But  you  were  unhappy,  Betty,  when  you 
thought  Kih'ush  cared  for  Ceciha.  Your  un- 
happiness  was  plain  for  us  all  to  see." 

"Not  for  Kilrush,"  she  said,  with  the  sweet- 
ness of  her  \iY>s  close  to  his. 

"Then  for  whom,  Betty?  Don't  say  it  was 
for  me — a  man  old  enough  to  be  your  father. 
Betty,  Betty,  do  you  know  what  you  are  say- 
ing, what  you  are  doing?  It  cannot  be  that 
you  care  for  me?" 

"You  are  quite  sure  it  is  not  Cecilia,"  she 
said,  lifting  her  lips  to  his.  "I  have  been  so 
unhappy  because  I  thought  you  cared  for 
Cecilia." 

Their  lips  met.  There  did  not  seem  any 
necessity  to  say  more. 


CHAPTER  XXIIi 

THE    PILGRIM    OF    LOVE 

So  all  need  for  Sir  Paul's  errand  to  Betty 
was  over.  He  had  no  longer  to  face  the  task  of 
detaching  her  heart  from  Kilrush,  since  the 
heart  had  always  been  his  own.  Betty  wear- 
ing her  fairing,  and  an  old  ring  of  rose  dia- 
monds and  pearls,  trod  the  earth  like  a  happy 
young  goddess.  Every  one  was  delighted. 
The  only  cloud  on  any  one's  joy  was  Cecilia. 

No  word  had  come  from  Ciss  or  Cecilia. 
At  another  time  Lady  Dromore  might  have 
thought  it  her  duty  to  write,  but  now  what 
with  Kilrush  lying  with  his  head  in  bandages, 
and  the  joyful  news  about  Betty,  and  the 
preparations  for  Sheila's  wedding,  and  the  com- 
ing home  of  Brian  from  the  China  station,  slie 
had  little  time  to  think.  Besides,  what  good 
was  it  for  her  to  write?  Nothing  could  now 
undo  Cecilia's  choice.  Perhaps  she  was  al- 
ready married.  When  Betty  begged  hard  to 
be  allowed  to  go  to  Cecilia,  Sir  Paul  and  her 
mother  were  on  the  side  of  prudence. 

"You  will  only  make  her  unhappy,"  Sir 
Paul  said.     "Better  let  her  be.     You  would  in 

299 


300  THE  PILGRIM  OF  LOVE 

all  probability  not  find  her;  and  if  you  did,  it 
would  be  too  late  to  interfere." 

No  one  seemed  to  think  there  could  be  any 
doubt  in  the  matter.  If  anybody  had  doubted, 
Cecilia's  own  letter  to  Lady  Dromore  seemed 
to  put  it  beyond  the  possibility  of  doubt. 
Only  Kilrush,  as  his  wounds  healed  and  his 
brain  became  clear,  fretted  and  fretted  because 
of  his  powerlessness. 

They  were  all  very  good  to  Kilrush.  Some- 
how the  Dromores,  as  well  as  Betty  and  Sir 
Paul  Chadwick,  seemed  to  know  at  last  that 
Kilrush  had  been  in  love  with  Cecilia. 

He  chafed  and  fretted  over  the  things  he 
had  not  done. 

"I  ought  not  to  have  taken  her  dismissal," 
he  said  gloomily  to  Sir  Paul  Chadwick.  "I 
should  not  have  left  her  to  herself.  I  ought 
to  have  come  back  again  and  again  and  have 
got  at  the  heart  of  her  mystery.  Her  mother 
would  have  been  on  my  side.  I  ought  to  have 
gone  to  the  mother  and  father.  After  all,  I 
had  more  to  offer  than — he.  And  still  I  can- 
not believe  her  married,  for  I  think  I  should 
know.  I  am  sure  I  should  know,  as  I  should 
know  if  she  were  dead.  I  had  rather  she  were 
dead." 

At  last  the  bandages  were  off,  and  Dr. 
Brady,  who  had  treated  his  patient  with  great 


THE  PILGRIJM  OF  LOVE  301 

skill  as  well  as  great  devotion,  gave  him  leave 
to  make  the  journey  to  Dublin. 

"I'm  not  saying  I'd  give  you  leave  if  you 
were  a  reasonable  man,"  he  said;  "but  as  vou're 
not  reasonable  it  does  you  more  harm  to  keep 
you  lying  here  than  to  let  you  go." 

The  doctor  too  seemed  to  know  what  was 
the  matter  with  Kilrush. 

"If  you  see  Maurice  Grace  in  Dublin,  my 
lord,"  he  said,  "tell  him  I'm  proud  to  hear  of 
his  progress.  JSIaybe  he'd  look  after  you. 
You're  a  discreditable  sort  of  patient  for  me 
to  put  out  of  my  hands.  You'll  take  care  of 
yourself  and  not  pick  up  a  chill,  for  you're 
not  yet  the  man  you  were.  And  rest  as  much 
as  you  can;  and  don't  fret." 

Kilrush  made  a  wry  face. 

"It's  as  much  as  telling  you  to  be  happy," 
Dr.  Brady  said,  looking  at  him  with  a  dry 
kindliness.  "If  we  could  only  prescribe  happi- 
ness now,  our  fortunes  would  be  made.  Or 
marred  perhaps.  We  wouldn't  have  many 
patients  if  people  were  only  happj^" 

"I  think  I'll  take  a  sea  voyage  presently  to 
pick  me  up,"  Kilrush  said,  not  meeting  the 
doctor's  eve.  "Will  you  come  along  with  me 
and  look  after  me?  Afterwards,  quit  that  hole 
you're  in  and  come  and  settle  down  near  me. 
We  want  a  doctor  in  these  parts.     There's  a 


302  THE  PILGRIM  OF  LOVE 

nice  little  house  inside  my  park-gates,  and 
there's  a  good  little  woman — the  widowed 
daughter  of  the  housekeeper  at  Kilrush 
Manor — who'd  look  after  you.  Think  it 
over." 

Dr.  Brady  went  all  manner  of  colors. 

"I'll  think  it  over,  thank  you,"  he  said. 
"But — I'm  afraid  it's  too  late.  I'm  too  old  a 
man  to  save.  Lord  Kilrush.  I  confess  I  should 
be  glad  to  leave  Drumree  behind  and  to  see 
the  last  of  Mary  Anne  Slatterj^  She's  ruined 
me  with  her  dirt  and  bad  cooking.  Sure, 
there  ought  to  be  a  mission  in  this  country  to 
convert  the  women  to  housekeepers.  They  kill 
the  soul  through  the  body ;  that's  what  they  do : 
they  kill  the  soul  through  the  body.  Many 
a  poor  fellow  would  never  take  to  the  bottle  if 
it  wasn't  that  he  was  living  like  a  pig." 

He  went  off,  shaking  his  head  mournfully; 
and  a  few  hours  later  Lord  Kilrush  started  foi- 
Dublin.  His  aunt  had  been  very  anxious  to 
travel  with  him,  but  he  would  not  hear  of  it. 
He  preferred  to  go  alone.  After  all  it  was 
not  a  very  exhausting  journey,  and  he  could 
not  come  to  much  harm. 

It  was  too  late  to  go  to  Merrion  Square  that 
evening,  so  he  dined  and  went  to  bed  early. 
Short  as  the  journey  was  it  had  tired  him,  since 
he  had  not  recovered  his  strength.  But  tired 
as  he  was  he  slept  badly.     The  horn's  were 


THE  PILGRIM  OF  LOVE  303 

tedious  that  kept  him  from  the  knowledge  of 
how  things  were  with  CeciHa. 

He  could  not  w^ait  next  morning  for  decorous 
afternoon  visiting.  He  must  know  the  truth. 
It  could  not  have  been  more  than  eleven  when 
he  walked  up  the  steps  of  Dr.  Grace's  house. 
The  doctor's  brougham  was  going  up  and 
down  in  front  of  the  house.  Before  Kilrush 
could  knock,  the  door  was  opened  and  Maurice 
Grace  himself  came  out. 

He  looked  at  Kilrush  interrogatively.  It 
was  their  first  meeting,  and  he  saw  that  the 
young  man  looked  ill. 

"If  you  wish  to  see  me  professionally,"  he 
said,  "I  can  give  you  a  little  time.  But  it 
is  mj^  hour  for  visiting  my  patients.  I  am  at 
home  from  three  to  six." 

He  turned  as  though  to  go  back. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  consult  you  professionally,'* 
Kilrush  said.  "I  am  just  out  of  a  doctor's 
hands,  and  not  very  fit,  I  confess.  But  I  have 
a  question  to  ask  you.  You  are  Dr.  Grace 
— are  you  not  ?  Allow  me  to  introduce  myself 
— I  am  Lord  Kilrush." 

"Ah!  I  am  happy  to  meet  you,  Lord  Kil- 
rush. I  have  heard  of  vou,  of  course.  Is 
there  any  reason  why  you  shouldn't  ask  your 
question  as  we  drive?  I  am  going  out  to  Dun- 
drum  to  see  a  patient," 

"None  whatever." 


304,  THE  PILGRIM  OF  LOVE 

Kilrush  felt  greatly  attracted  by  Maurice 
Grace.  He  looked  so  kind  and  simple  and 
sympathetic.  What  did  it  matter  that  his  fig- 
ure was  clumsy  and  his  features  heavy,  that 
he  had  the  stubby  fingers  of  a  man  of  the  peo- 
ple, as  Kilrush  noticed  when  they  sat  opposite 
each  other  in  the  carriage?  ^laurice  Grace 
had  insisted  on  taking  the  front  seat  and  leav- 
ing the  back  one  to  his  guest. 

"Well?"  the  doctor  asked,  with  a  smile  which 
all  of  a  sudden  lit  up  his  plain  face,  redeeming 
its  plainness. 

"I  have  a  most  extraordinary  question  to  ask 
you,  Dr.  Grace,"  Kilrush  said,  turning  very 
red. 

"Ask  it." 

"Is  it  true  that  your  daughter  is  married?" 

Maurice  Grace  stared  his  bewilderment. 

"God  bless  my  soul,  no!"  he  said  emphatic- 
ally. "What  on  earth  put  such  an  idea  into 
your  head?" 

Such  a  look  came  over  Kilrush's  face  that 
the  father  had  no  need  of  being  told  that  here 
was  a  young  man  in  love  with  Cecilia.  It  was 
as  though  he  were  relieved  of  a  sentence  of 
death.  The  haggard  care  and  anxiety  swept 
away  from  his  face  as  a  cloud  is  swept  from  a 
landscape,  leaving  him  thin  indeed  from  his  re- 
cent illness  but  young  and  joyful  as  of  old. 

"What  on  earth  put  such  an  idea  into  your 


THE  PILGRIM  OF  LOVE  305 

head  ?  There  is  no  thought  of  Ceciha's  marry- 
ing." 

As  he  said  it  a  hght  cloud  settled  down  on  his 
face.  He  glanced  at  Kilrush,  with  a  pitying 
expression. 

"I  have  just  come  from  Lady  Dromore. 
They  believe  it.  It  must  be  a  misunderstand- 
ing. Sir  Paul  Chadwick,  who  was  here  some 
weeks  ago,  gathered  that  Miss  Grace  was  about 
to  marry  her  cousin.  A  letter  of  hers  to  Lady 
Dromore  seemed  a  confirmation  of  what  he 
had  gathered." 

"Confound  him!"  said  Maurice  Grace,  with 
startling  force  and  suddenness.  "Confound 
him!  what  business  had  he  to  gather  such 
things?  Her  cousin!  It  is  not  possible  that 
he  thought  my  daughter  was  about  to  marry 
Bernard  Grace?" 

"I'm  afraid  he  did  think  it.  He  saw  things 
that  made  him  believe  it." 

Maurice  Grace  smiled  grimly. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact  Bernard  Grace  is  mar- 
ried. He  was  married  a  couple  of  weeks  ago 
to  a  Miss  Tollemache.  His  mother  did  not  ap- 
prove of  the  engagement,  and  they  were  mar- 
ried from  my  house.  I  remember  now  that  Sir 
Paul  Chadwick  visited  us  on  the  evening  when 
Bernard  came  to  us  in  his  perplexity  and  asked 
us  to  receive  Miss  Tollemache.  He  must  have 
misunderstood  what  he  saw." 


306  THE  PILGRIM  OF  LOVE 

"No  doubt.  The  gi'cat  thing  is" — Kilrush 
was  not  over-anxious  to  conceal  his  feeUngs, 
and  Ceciha's  father  seemed  to  look  kindly  on 
him — "the  great  thing  is  that  it  is  not  true. 
My  accident  played  me  a  shabby  trick.  I  was 
on  my  way  to  her,  to  you,  when  it  happened. 
It  is  nearly  four  weeks  ago.  For  four  weeks 
I  have  been  suffering.  I  was  not  convinced 
that  the  story  was  true,  else  I  do  not  know  how 
I  should  have  borne  it." 

He  looked  with  a  shy  appeal  in  his  smile  at 
Dr.  Grace. 

"I  have  a  very  good  character,"  he  said,  "and 
am  sound  in  wind  and  limb.  And  I  can  pro- 
vide for  a  wife.     I  have  your  good  wishes,  sir?" 

A  cold  wind  eddj^  ing  round  a  street  corner 
blew  dead  leaves  and  dust  in  at  the  carriage- 
window;  and  a  sudden  chill  fell  on  Kilrush's 
exuberant  happiness. 

"You  have  my  good  wishes,"  Dr.  Grace  said, 
looking  at  him  again  with  that  air  of  kindly 
pity  which  made  the  lover's  heart  cold.  "I 
only  hope  you  will  be  able  to  persuade  her  to 
listen  to  you.  But  she  is  very  obstinate.  I 
have  told  her  she  must  wait,  but  she  says  she 
will  not  change.  Cecilia  wishes  to  become  a 
nun." 

"A  nun!" 

Kilrush  repeated  the  words  in  blankest  con- 
sternation.    The  convent — why  that  would  be 


THE  PILGRIM  OF  LOVE  307 

the  most  impregnable  barrier  of  all !  His  heart 
sank  like  a  stone  as  he  thought  how  impregna- 
ble. No  one  knew  better  than  he  the  terrible 
hopelessness  of  it. 

"She  has  consented  to  wait,"  JNIaurice  Grace 
went  on  in  his  soft,  pitying  voice,  which  had 
brought  comfort  to  many  a  bedside.  "She  is 
wonderfully  sweet  and  docile,  and  always  has 
been.  Our  only  daughter ;  it  is  not  likely  that 
we  should  be  willing  to  give  her;  but  if  it  was 
to  be  that  the  sacrifice  was  asked  at  our  hands, 

•  •  • 

He  paused  for  a  second  or  two  and  went  on. 

"You  shall  see  her  and  plead  your  own  cause 
with  her,  Lord  Kilrush.  There  is  this  in  your 
favor.  Her  mother  and  I  have  noticed  that 
she  has  been  sad  for  some  time,  since  she  came 
back  two  months  ago  from  visiting  her  rela- 
tives at  the  House  of  Dromore.  She  savs  that 
she  has  alwavs  had  it  in  her  mind  to  become  a 
nun.  I  doubt  it,  though  I  am  sure  she  believes 
it.  Anj^how,  something  happened  to  make  the 
very  indefinite  intention  definite.  She  is  mak- 
ing her  trousseau  now,  although  she  has  con- 
sented to  wait.  Such  a  trousseau,  tlie  coarsest 
and  hardest  materials  that  can  be  found.  My 
poor  Cecilia!" 

A  sharp  spasm  passed  over  Kilrush's  face. 

"Never  mind,  my  lad,  never  mind,"  the 
father   said   compassionately.     "I   should   not 


308  THE  PILGRIM  OF  LOVE 

have  told  you  that.  Indeed,  I  did  not  mean  to 
hurt  you.  Perhaps — if  it  was  some  unhappi- 
ness — CeciHa  will  listen  to  you.  If  it  was  an- 
other girl     .     .     ." 

He  had  it  in  liis  mind  that  few  girls  could 
resist  Kilrush,  but  he  did  not  go  on  with  the 
speech.  There  were  not  many  girls  like 
Cecilia. 

"They  should  not  take  an  only  daughter," 
Kilrush  said,  speaking  with  a  curious  thickness, 
while  a  fire  burned  in  his  eyes.  "They  have  no 
right  to  take  an  only  daughter." 

"So  Mother  Margaret  holds.  INIother  Mar- 
garet is  the  nun  who  has  been  the  object  of 
Cecilia's  devotion  for  years.  You  must  not 
blame  Cecilia,  however.  She  thinks  that  her 
mother  and  I  suffice  for  each  other,  which  is  to 
some  extent  true.  And  ...  if  the  child 
were  in  a  convent  we  should  know  she  was  safe 
and  happy.  She  is  not  fitted  to  swing  between 
two  worlds.  Ah,  here  we  are.  WiU  you  wait 
for  me?" 

The  carriage  had  turned  in  at  a  gate  between 
two  hedges  still  of  extraordinary  luxuriance  al- 
though the  day  was  November.  Beyond  a 
stretch  of  green  la^vn,  enclosed  by  white  pal- 
ings, a  little  one-storied  cottage  with  green 
shutters  housed  the  doctor's  patient. 

"Where  is  she?" 

"I  left  her  at  Dalkey  this  morning.     The 


THE  PILGRIM  OF  LOVE  309 

season  has  been  so  mild  that  we  have  not  yet 
come  in  for  the  winter.  Very  often  she  comes 
to  town  and  goes  to  the  convent  to  be  with 
Mother  Margaret.  She  may  be  there  now. 
If  so,  she  would  probably  return  home  some 
time  in  the  afternoon." 

The  carriage  stopped  in  front  of  the  little 
green-trellised  porch.  At  the  same  moment  a 
light  as  of  illumination  came  to  the  doctor's 
face. 

"Go  and  see  Mother  ^Margaret,"  he  said. 
"She  is  the  wisest  woman  I  know,  inside  or  out- 
side a  convent.  Take  your  case  to  her,  my 
friend.  She  will  listen  to  you;  and  if  Cecilia's 
is  a  fancied  and  not  a  real  vocation,  she  will 
help  you.  Stay — I  shall  be  here  some  time. 
I  will  tell  my  man  to  drive  you  across  to  the 
convent  and  return  here  for  me.  And" — he 
let  his  face  relax  into  lines  of  sadness — "if 
Ceciha  listens  to  you,  her  mother  and  I  will  be 
glad.  It  is  a  sad  thing  to  be  growing  old  with- 
out children  or  children's  children." 

He  stepped  out  on  the  gravel  sweep  in  front 
of  the  house  and  shut  to  the  door  of  the 
brougham.  Then,  having  given  directions  to 
the  coachman,  he  lingered  a  moment  to  speak  a 
word  or  two. 

"She  is  a  delicate  thing,  Lord  Kilrush,"  he 
said  earnestly,  "a  very  delicate  and  a  very  pre- 
cious thing.  But  I  could  trust  her  to  your  keep- 


310  THE  PILGRIM  OF  LOVE 

ing.  You  have  a  good  face,  and  I  have  heard 
nothing  but  good  of  you.  If  you  win  Ceciha, 
you  will  have  my  blessing:  if  not,  well  .  .  . 
if  the  good  God  wills  to  keep  her  unspotted 
from  the  world  and  untroubled  by  it  His  own 
way,  her  mother  and  I  will  try  not  to  repine." 

He  turned  sharply  on  his  heel  as  though  the 
agitation  of  his  face  would  not  bear  the  other 
man's  eyes  upon  it,  and  went  up  the  steps  to  the 
little  green  hall-door  which  stood  wide  open  as 
though  he  were  a  welcome  guest. 


CHAPTER  XXiy 

THE   COUNSELOR 

Lord  Kilrush  waited  for  Mother  Margaret 
in  a  low,  brown-paneled  room,  dim  and  ob- 
scure in  the  November  sunlessness.  There  was 
not  much  in  the  room  for  the  eye  to  rest  upon. 
A  dim  oil-painting  of  a  sacred  subject  above 
the  mantel-piece,  an  exquisitely  wrought  and 
jeweled  ivory  crucifix  below  it,  a  round  mahog- 
any table  with  a  blotter  and  writing  materials 
upon  it,  some  rigid  chairs  against  the  wall. 
That  was  about  all  the  room  contained. 

He  looked  up  at  the  walls  and  ceiling,  down 
at  the  polished  floor,  round  about  him,  and 
there  was  not  a  stain  or  speck  of  dust  anywhere. 
Everything  was  shining  with  cleanliness,  and  a 
little  cold.  The  polished  steel  grate  with  the 
brass  jambs  to  it  did  not  suggest  that  it  ever 
had  a  fire.  He  shivered  at  the  pure,  cold  at- 
mosphere, thinking  that  before  long  these  walls 
might  hold  Ceciha  from  his  arms,  from  life  and 
love. 

Outside  was  the  garden,  very  unlike  what  he 
remembered  of  it  in  its  midsummer  glories.  A 
few  melancholy  chrysanthemums  raised  their 

311 


312  THE  COUNSELOR 

ragged  heads  above  the  debris  of  dead  leaves 
and  broken  branches.  On  the  apple  trees  a 
few  apples  yet  swung  in  the  wind  which  every 
moment  brought  the  leaves  down  in  eddying 
flight  and  whirl.  A  stout  lay  sister  with  a 
broom  came  along  and  swept  the  leaves  in 
heaps,  while  another,  following,  raked  them 
into  her  barrow. 

The  hush  of  the  convent  was  broken  only  by 
now  and  again  the  tinkle  of  a  little  bell  and  the 
swish  of  a  nun's  garments  as  she  hurried  along 
the  corridor  to  the  choir  or  the  school,  obedient 
to  the  signal  that  had  called  her. 

The  silence  and  strangeness  of  the  place  were 
beginning  to  get  on  Kilrush's  nerves,  none  too 
strong  for  illness  and  anxiety,  when  the  door 
opened  and  Mother  JNIargaret  came  in.  Her 
coming  was  as  though  some  one  had  set  a  lamp 
in  the  room,  a  lamp  clear-shining  which  should 
illumine  the  corners  and  drive  the  shadows 
packing  out  of  doors. 

Mother  Margaret  had  a  charming  face,  the 
sweet  oval  of  which  was  revealed  by  the  fram- 
ing of  the  dead-white  coif  about  it  and  the 
hanging  veil  of  black.  Her  color  was  nothing 
to  speak  of,  and  her  features  were  irregular; 
she  had  a  wide,  wise,  humorous  mouth,  and  her 
nose  was  too  thick  for  beauty.  But  looking  in 
her  face  one  forgot  that  she  was  not  positively 
beautiful  for  the  splendor  of  her  eyes.     They 


THE  COUNSELOR  313 

were  large,  they  were  deep,  they  were  hmpid, 
they  were  of  an  odd,  light  brown  that  had  a 
touch  of  golden  fire  in  it.  The  texture  of  her 
skin  was  of  a  transparent  purity.  Her  teeth 
when  she  smiled  were  white  and  even.  She  had 
a  caressing,  soft,  coaxing  voice  and  a  persuasive 
manner.  In  presence  of  Mother  Margaret  one 
felt  that  here  was  one  of  those  women  of  genius, 
of  whom  every  convent  at  least  seems  to  possess 
one,  who  are  wiser  in  their  generation  than  the 
children  of  this  world. 

She  came  towards  Kilrush,  narrowing  her 
eyes  a  httle  in  the  effort  to  see  him.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  the  glorious  eyes  were  extremely 
short-sighted. 

"You  wished  to  see  me,  sir,"  she  began.  And 
then — "Why,  it  is  Lord  Kilrush!  You  were 
here  on  our  great  occasion  last  summer,  were 
you  not?  But  you  are  not  looking  well. 
Now,  what  have  you  been  doing  to  yourself?" 

The  kindness  of  the  voice  seemed  a  delipht- 
ful  thing  to  Kilrush.  He  almost  forgot  that 
his  head  was  swimming  and  his  mind  on  the 
rack. 

"Dr.  Grace  sent  me  to  you,"  he  began. 

"To  be  sure,"  she  said,  encouraging  him  to 
go  on.     "And  what  about,  my  child?" 

It  was  a  delightful  thing  to  be  called  INIother 
Margaret's  child,  and  Kilrusli  felt  that  he 
would  have  no  difficulty  in  confiding  in  her. 


314  THE  COUNSELOR 

"It  is  about  Miss  Grace, — about  Cecilia. 
Her  father  tells  me  that  she  wishes  to  become 
a  nun.  Somehow,  I  think,  1  hope,  that  it  is 
not  a  real  vocation.  If  it  were  so,  I  should 
only  have  to  submit,  even  though  it  made  me 
the  most  miserable  man  alive." 

"Ah!"  Mother  Margaret  nodded.  "Even 
though  it  made  you  the  most  miserable  man 
alive." 

"I  love  her,"  he  said  simply.  "And — up  to 
a  certain  point  I  could  have  sworn  she  loved 
me.  Then  she  repulsed  me;  she  sent  me  from 
her.  She  would  give  me  no  explanation.  I 
waited,  thinking  she  only  needed  time.  Then" 
— he  passed  over  the  intervening  trouble  which 
had  been  shown  to  be  needless — "I  hear  she  is 
bent  on  the  conventual  life." 

"Yes — and  not  with  us.  Do  you  know  that  ? 
She  wants  to  go  to  the  Poor  Clares.  She  is 
very  devoted  to  me,  as  I  am  to  her.  Our 
friendship  would  be  always  a  consolation  in  any 
circumstances.  But  she  chooses  the  Poor 
Clares.  It  is  the  latest  idea.  It  is  a  young 
girl's  way  to  be  entetee  from  self-sacrifice." 

'^Cecilia  among  the  Poor  Clares!  Under 
that  rigid  rule !  Impossible !  Why,  she  would 
not  live  a  year." 

"Many  more  delicate  than  she  have  lived  to 
be  ninety  under  that  rigid  rule.  My  dear 
Lord  Kilrush,  I  have  the  deex^est  sympathy  for 


THE  COUNSELOR  315 

you.  But,  of  course,  if  I  believed  the  child  to 
have  a  genuine  vocation  I  could  only  be  sorry 
for  you." 

He  grasped  at  what  was  unexpressed  in  her 
words. 

"But  you  do  not  believe  her  to  have  a  voca- 
tion?" 

"My  experience  is  that  every  girl  of  imagina- 
tion who  is  brought  in  contact  at  all  with  the 
religious  life,  believes  she  has  a  vocation  at  one 
time  or  another.  It  is  a  great  misfortune  for  a 
convent  when  one  who  has  not  a  genuine  voca- 
tion slips  through  to  her  final  vows.  It  makes 
at  the  best  for  trouble;  at  the  worst,  it  makes 
for  the  escaped  nun.  We  have  to  be  on  our 
guard." 

"And     .     .     .     ?" 

He  hung  on  her  words. 

"I  confess  that  I  disbelieve  in  Cecilia's  voca- 
tion. She  has  a  beautiful  voice.  Some  of  the 
younger,  more  zealous,  less  discreet  nuns, 
urged  upon  her  that  it  was  her  duty  to  give  up 
her  voice  to  God.  But  she  can  do  that  in  the 
world.  A  gift  is  always  a  mission,  though  the 
world  will  not  see  it  so.  She  is  an  only  child. 
I  think  that  was  the  duty  God  gave  her,  and  she 
listened  to  me  when  I  said  so,  and  I  think  was 
relieved.  St.  Jane  Frances  de  Chantal  walked 
to  her  convent  over  the  bodies  of  her  children. 
To  be  sure  they  were  grown-up  children,  but 


316  THE  COUNSELOR 

even  then — if  they  needed  her!  Who  am  I  to 
judge  a  saint?"  She  laughed,  showing  her 
white,  even  teeth.  "Ceciha  went  away  happily 
with  her  mind  at  rest  to  stay  with  her  cousins. 
She  came  back  unhappy  and  with  the  vocation 
very  insistent.  I  have  discovered  one  bee  that 
she  has  in  her  bonnet.  Her  father  should  set 
it  at  rest.  She  thinks  that  her  mother's  mental 
trouble  might  recur  in  her ;  that  for  that  reason 
she  ought  not  to  marry.  I  understand 
there  is  no  hereditary  taint  whatever  in  Mrs. 
Grace." 

"None,"  said  the  young  man  eagerly.  "It 
was  a  shock,  a  fearfid  shock.  She  heard  sud- 
denly that  her  lover  had  been  killed  and  eaten 
by  cannibals.  It  was  enough  to  unhinge  any 
delicate  and  sensitive  mind." 

"I  agree  with  you,  and  I  do  not  think  it  is  in 
the  least  likely  to  recur.  Mrs.  Grace,  poor 
lamb !  is  quite  herself  now.  The  years  seem  to 
have  forgotten  her.  No  one  dare  think  of  her 
as  middle-aged.  Cecilia's  father  must  talk  to 
her  about  this  fear  she  has.  Some  one  must 
have  put  it  into  her  head." 

"It  was  enough  to  account  for  her  dismissing 
me." 

"Yes,  I  think  it  was  enough,  with  a  girl  of 
Cecilia's  delicate  conscience.  If  there  is  any- 
thing else — well,  you  had  better  ask  Cecilia.  I 
have  an  idea  the  Poor  Clares  may  lose  a  postu- 


THE  COUNSELOR  317 

lant.  Mother  de  Pazzi  would  never  forgive 
me,  if  she  knew." 

"You  advise  me  to  go  to  Cecilia?" 

"She  is  coming  to  me  about  three  o'clock. 
Better  wait  here  lest  you  should  miss  her  on  the 
way.  I  don't  suj^pose  Mount  St.  Mary's  ever 
before  was  made  a  trysting-place  for  lovers." 

Her  bright  eyes  danced  at  him. 

"How  good  you  are  to  me,  Mother  ^lar- 
garet!"  he  said  imi^ulsively.  "What  an 
angel!" 

"Oh,  not  an  angel,  my  child.  Only  a  poor 
nun  who  stayed  in  the  world  till  her  fortieth 
year,  and  has  brought  some  of  the  common- 
sense  of  the  world  into  the  cloister." 

Her  voice  changed  to  one  kind  and  common- 
sensible.  She  took  a  silver  watch  from  her 
leathern  girdle  and  looked  at  the  face. 

"You  have  an  hour  and  a  half  to  wait,"  she 
said,  "and  I  must  see  about  some  lunch  for 
you.  It  is  a  fast  day,  and  I  fear  there  isn't  a 
bit  of  meat  in  the  convent ;  but  we  will  do  what 
we  can  for  you.  And  the  first  thing  I  had  bet- 
ter do  is  to  take  you  to  a  room  with  a  fire. 
You  ought  not  to  have  been  here  so  long." 

She  opened  a  door  in  the  corner  of  the  room 
and  preceded  him  into  another  room  where  a 
bright  fire  burned.  The  room  was  walled 
with  books. 

"This  is  our  Children  of  Mary's  library,"  she 


318  THE  COUNSELOR 

said.  "You  must  find  a  book  to  amuse  you. 
There  are  plenty  of  harmless  novels.  Have 
you  read  this  new  book  of  Mrs.  Steel's?  I 
haven't  read  it  myself,  but  I  can  recommend 
it." 

With  a  motherly  kindness  she  pushed  an 
armchair  in  front  of  the  fire  for  Kilrush. 

"Now,  I  must  leave  you,"  she  said;  "my 
bell  rang  a  few  minutes  ago.  A  nun  ought  al- 
ways to  answer  her  bell  promptly.  I  will  see 
that  your  lunch  is  sent  in.  And  I  will  let  you 
know  when  Cecilia  arrives.  Poor  Cecilia!  she 
little  knows  how  we  are  plotting  against  her 
vocation." 

She  went  away,  smiling  back  at  him  over  her 
shoulder.  And  presently  a  little  brown-faced 
lay  sister  came  in  and  laid  the  cloth,  and  be- 
tween two  or  three  errands  set  out  on  it  a  dish 
of  eggs,  delicious  French  rolls  and  creamy  but- 
ter, a  coffee-pot,  a  little  tray  containing  a  cup 
and  saucer,  cream  and  sugar,  and  hot  milk,  with 
a  tall  Eiiipire  dish  of  golden  pears  and  plums. 

"]\Iother  JMargaret  said  you  were  to  eat  all 
and  ring  for  more,"  she  said,  surveying  the 
dainty  meal  with  a  beaming  countenance. 
"Mother  Margaret  was  quite  right.  The 
young  ought  to  eat.  When  you  are  ready,  if 
you  touch  the  bell  I  will  bring  you  more." 

She  looked  at  Kilrush  as  though  he  were 
sixteen. 


THE  COUNSELOR  319 

"Ah,  yes,  the  young  ought  to  eat,"  she  re- 
peated. "You  do  not  look  as  though  you  had 
been  eating.  It  is  wrong  not  to  take  care  of 
the  health  God  gives  you.  Very,  very  wrong. 
If  I  had  charge  of  you,  how  I  should  scold 

you!" 

Kilrush  ate  the  first  meal  he  had  enjoyed  for 
many  weeks,  despite  the  fact  that  excitement 
and  fear  of  the  approaching  interview  made 
him  feel  as  though  his  heart  trembled  and  shook 
his  body.  His  achievements  did  not  please  the 
little  lay  sister,  who  would  have  him  eat  a  meal 
fit  only  for  giants;  but  he  had  been  feeling 
faint,  and  the  good,  delicately  prej)ared  food 
revived  him. 

He  was  apparently  scanning  the  backs  of  the 
books  in  the  book-shelves,  but  not  seeing  a 
single  one  of  the  titles,  when  Mother  Margaret 
returned  to  him. 

"Ah,"  she  said.  "I  thought  that  even  Mrs. 
Steel  would  fail.  I  have  told  them  to  send 
Ceciha  in  here  when  she  arrives.  I  want  her 
to  see  you  without  being  prepared  for  the  sight 
of  you,  and  I  want  to  see  her  see  you." 

"I  have  been  thinking  what  I  could  give  the 
convent,"  he  said.  "What  does  it  want — an 
altar,  a  stained  window?" 

"Cecilia  would  be  well  worth  a  thanksgiv- 
ing," JNIother  Margaret  said  smiHng.  "You 
and  she  together  shall  do  as  you  will.     But  re- 


320  THE  COUNSELOR 

member — if  there  had  been  a  vocation,  I  should 
have  been  as  hard  as  the  nether  millstone. 
Sister  Stephanie  is  disturbed  about  you.  She 
says  you  ought  to  be  kept  in  bed  and  fed  up. 
She  is  sure  you  oughtn't  to  be  out  in  the  night 
air." 

"I  have  been  fed  up  to-day,"  he  said.  "Al- 
though I  confess,  Mother  Margaret,  I  hardly 
knew  what  I  was  eating.  The  suspense  has 
been  awful." 

"Ah!"  said  Mother  Margaret,  with  her  de- 
lightful smile,  "I  have  two  sisters  married.  I 
used  to  know  all  about  their  agitations  and 
hopes  and  fears.  We  religious  are  spared  a 
great  deal.  There  is  the  front-door  bell. 
Cecilia  is  punctual." 

A  second  or  two  later  the  door  opened  and 
Cecilia  came  into  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXV  AND  LAST 

"love  that  hath  us  in  his  net" 

For  a  second  she  did  not  perceive  Kilrush, 
who  had  drawn  himself  back  into  the  shadow 
by  the  fireplace.  When  at  last  she  saw  him  a 
great  wave  of  color  flooded  her  innocent  face. 
The  pitiless  north  light  of  the  window  was  upon 
it.  One  could  not  but  feel  that  her  whole  deli- 
cate body  blushed.  Her  eyelids  fluttered  and 
fell.  For  a  second  she  was  a  picture  of  con- 
fusion ;  then  the  color  began  to  ebb  away,  before 
JNIother  Margaret,  with  a  motion  as  though  she 
would  shelter  the  girl,  pushed  her  gently  into 
a  chair. 

"Lord  Kilrush  wishes  to  talk  to  you,  Cecilia,'* 
she  said.  "He  has  your  father's  sanction;  and 
I  want  you  to  listen  to  him  and  think  over  what 
he  has  to  say." 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  said  Cecilia  so  softly  that  those 
who  listened  had  a  sense  that  they  had  only 
imagined  she  spoke;  yet  there  was  a  wild  ap- 
peal in  the  softness.  She  put  out  her  hand 
with  a  childish  action  to  capture  ]M other  Mar- 
garet's floating  veil,  as  though  she  would  detain 
her  by  force  if  needs  be.     "There  is  nothing 

321 


322     "LOVE  THAT  HATH  US  IN  HIS  NET" 

Lord  Kilrush  can  have  to  say  to  me  which  you 
may  not  stay  to  hear." 

"Be  kind  to  him,  Ceciha;  he  has  been  very 
iU." 

The  girl  lifted  her  shrinking  eyes,  and  some- 
thing of  a  maternal  compassion  filled  them. 

"Ah,"  she  said  in  a  whisper,  "I  had  not 
heard.     I  am  so  sorry  that  you  were  ill." 

"I  met  with  an  accident,"  Kilrush  answered. 
*'I  was  on  my  waj^  to  Dublin  at  the  time  to  see 
you.  I  was  in  headlong  haste  to  catch  my  train, 
or  it  need  not  have  happened.  It  has  kept  me 
back  nearly  a  month  from  seeing  you." 

"Ah!"  Cecilia  said  again.  "You  wanted  to 
see  me.     Why?" 

"Because  an  extraordinary  rumor  had 
reached  us."  Mother  Margaret  went  out 
softly  at  this  point  and  closed  the  door  towards 
which  Cecilia  barely  glanced ;  she  was  listening 
so  intently  now  to  what  Kilrush  had  to  say. 
"An  extraordinary  rumor.  I  ought  not  to 
have  believed  it.  If  I  had  cared  less,  my  dear, 
I  should  have  known  that  it  could  not  be  true. 
But  Sir  Paul  Chadwick  was  very  certain,  and 
your  own  letter  to  Lady  Dromore  seemed  to 
bear  it  out." 

"What  letter?  What  rumor?"  Cecilia  asked 
with  wide,  startled  eyes.  "What  was  it  you 
heard  about  me?" 

"That  you  were  going  to  marry  your  cousin 


"LOVE  THAT  HATH  US  IN  HIS  NET"     323 

— the  cousin  I  saw  with  you  at  the  train  the 
day  we  traveled  together  to  the  House  of  Dro- 
more." 

"I!     Marry  Bernard  Grace!" 

The  wounded  blood  rushed  to  Cecilia's  face. 
Her  soft  lip  curled. 

"That  was  something  you  ought  not  to  have 
believed — on  any  evidence,"  she  said  coldly. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  he  answered  humbly. 
"God  knows  it  tortured  me.  I  have  been  in 
torture,  Cecilia,  while  I  thought  the  story 
might  be  true." 

"Oh!  oh!"  said  Cecilia,  covering  her  face  with 
her  hands,  "you  should  not  say  such  things. 
Don't  you  know?  Hasn't  papa  told  you? 
Hasn't  Mother  Margaret  told  you?" 

He  drew  her  hands  down  from  her  face. 

"Your  father  and  ^Mother  JNIargaret  have 
both  given  me  their  blessing,"  he  said. 
"What  is  it  that  has  come  between  us,  Cecilia? 
Not  this — this  vocation,  in  which  neither  your 
father  nor  Mother  INIargaret  believe.  Your 
vocation  is  to  take  care  of  me,  Cecilia.  If  you 
refuse,  heaven  knows  what  may  happen  to  me. 
I  think  I  could  be  pretty  bad  if  I  was  shut 
away  from  you  by  the  convent  walls  or  any 
other  barrier.  When  a  man  loves  a  woman  as 
I  love  you  the  woman  is  responsible  for  his 
soul." 

She  looked  at  him  with  eves  dilated. 


324.     "LOVE  THAT  HATH  US  IN  HIS  NET" 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  would  be — 
not  good — if  I  told  you  I  must  enter  the  con- 
vent," she  said. 

"I  think  certainly  that  I  might  be — not 
good,"  he  replied,  and  hardly  knew  whether  he 
was  playing  with  her  tender  fears  or  not. 

"Oh,  but  there  would  be  some  one  else  to 
console  you,"  she  said  desperately.  "Why  not 
— Betty?  Betty  is  so  sweet.  If  I  had  never 
come" — she  floundered,  and  looked  from  side  to 
side  as  though  she  meditated  flight — "if  I  had 
never  come  .  ,  .  they  were  so  kind  to  me. 
I'm  not  saying  that  Betty  was  .  .  .  ready 
.  .  .  to  love  you  .  .  .  but  if  you  had 
loved  her.  .  .  .  Betty  is  not  the  one  to 
hold  out  against  you.  I  know  she  likes  you 
very  much." 

"So  she  does;  but  not  so  well  as  she  likes 
Chadwick." 

''Whatr 
•  "Not  so  well  as  she  likes  Chadwick.  Chad- 
wick and  she  have  always  been  in  love  with  each 
other.  I  always  knew  it — at  least  for  a  long 
time.  I  forget  you  don't  know  our  news. 
Chadwick  saved  Betty  from  drowning  a  few 
weeks  ago  at  Kilkee.  She  had  been  caught 
under  the  cliffs  by  a  high  tide.  Chadwick 
pulled  her  up  out  of  the  reach  of  the  sea.  They 
were  imprisoned  in  a  hole  in  the  chffs  till  the 


"LOVE  THAT  HATH  US  IN  HIS  NET"     325 

turn  of  the  tide,  for  it  was  impossible  to  reach 
them  from  above.  During  the  imprisonment 
Chadwick  spoke.  Perhaps  he  never  would 
have,  only  for  that.  He  is  in  a  state  of  beatifi- 
cation because  Betty  stoops  to  him,  and  Betty 
is  blessing  her  stars  for  that  hour  on  the  cliff. 
They  tried  to  keep  their  rapture  out  of  my  sight 
because  they  pitied  me ;  but  it  was  impossible  to 
hide  it.  Lady  Dromore  is  delighted.  Betty 
is  like  a  golden  rose.  Arlo  is  in  the  hands  of 
painters  and  decorators.  And  Betty  talks  of 
her  trousseau." 

"Oh!"  said  Cecilia.  "Oh!  I  never  thought 
of  such  a  thing.  I  thought  it  was  you  that 
Betty  loved." 

Kilrush  had  a  sudden  revelation. 

"And  that  was  why  you  were  suddenly  cold 
to  me,  Cecilia?  Cecilia,  loyalist!  That  was 
why  you  sent  me  away.  That  was  why  you 
thought  of  the  convent." 

"Not  altogether,"  said  Cecilia,  with  fright- 
ened but  happy  eyes  in  his  embrace.  "There 
is  another  reason  why  I  ought  not  to  marry," 

"You  think  there  is,"  Kilrush  said.  "There 
is  not.  Mother  JNIargaret  has  told  me.  Ask 
your  father  about  it.  He  will  tell  you  there  is 
nothing  to  fear.  Who  was  it  put  sucli  a  fear 
into  your  poor,  little  head?  My  sweetheart, 
there  is  no  taint  in  you.     You  are  unspotted 


326     -'LOVE  THAT  HATH  US  IN  HIS  NET" 

from  head  to  foot — your  lovely  mind  as  well  as 
your  lovely  body.  No  bride  ever  came  to  her 
groom  more  perfect  than  you." 

So,  Cecilia's  vocation  disappeared,  and  the 
wisdom  of  Mother  Margaret  was  justified. 
The  Poor  Clares  were  disappointed  in  Cecilia, 
and  pitied  her  because  she  had  chosen  the  lower 
instead  of  the  higher  state  of  life ;  but  as  Mother 
Margaret  said  cheerfully:  "It  takes  all  sorts 
to  make  a  world ;  and  without  marriages  there 
would  soon  be  an  end  to  convents." 

Gran  also  disapproved.  She  refused  to  be 
dazzled  at  having  a  lord  for  a  grandson-in-law, 
and  yielded  Ceciha  hardly  and  with  some  bit- 
terness to  the  Dromores  and  her  mother's  class. 

But  Time,  that  modifies  everything,  in  time 
modified  Gran's  feelings  about  the  marriage 
when  she  found  that  Lady  Kilrush  remained 
just  the  same  unspoiled,  affectionate,  humble 
child  that  Cecilia  Grace  had  been.  And  also 
when  Ciss  and  her  husband  went  back  to  the 
Dromores,  and  Maurice  Grace  and  Lord  Dro- 
more  became  fast  friends,  being  kindred  spirits 
indeed  in  their  serious  unworldliness. 

"Lady  Kilrush"  became  a  social  asset  to  the 
Patrick  Graces,  her  name  being  always  on  the 
lips  of  Mrs.  Patrick  Grace  and  her  daughters, 
her  ways  and  tastes  and  opinions  constantly 
quoted  to  the  social  circle  in  which  they  moved, 
in  which  Mrs.  Patrick  and  her  daughters  were 


"LOVE  THAT  HATH  US  IN  HIS  NET"     327 

visibly  exalted  by  their  relationship  to  the 
peerage. 

Mrs.  Patrick  for  long  kept  up  a  hostile  at- 
titude to  her  son's  wife,  being  of  opinion  that 
Irene  had  very  cleverly  and  cunningly  foisted 
herself  and  her  old,  blind  father  on  to  Bernard, 
an  opinion  she  was  not  slow  about  expressing. 
However,  it  mattered  little  to  young  Mrs. 
Grace,  who  was  perfectly  hapi3y  in  her  strange 
choice,  and  lived  far  enough  away  to  see  verj'- 
little  of  her  husband's  family. 

But  Mrs.  Patrick  also  shows  signs  of  recon- 
sidering her  attitude.  With  Irene  an  honored 
guest  among  the  great,  accepted  even  at  the 
House  of  Dromore,  her  mother-in-law  cannot 
long  afford  to  be  hostile  towards  her. 

Bernard,  under  his  wife's  gentle  influence 
and  tutelage  has  so  far  modified  himself  that 
his  mother  secretly  thinks  him  terribly  changed 
for  the  worse.  "You'd  think  he  was  nobody, 
just  nobody,"  she  says,  "that  used  to  swagger 
round  with  his  dogs  and  horses  the  equal  of 
any  man.  His  father  and  me  hardly  know 
him." 

Bernard  is  a  prominent  Nationalist,  and 
nearly  at  the  point  of  attaining  his  ambition  to 
represent  an  Irish  constituency.  Wherefore 
he  is  of  interest  to  the  Dromores  and  their 
friends  who  are  on  the  popular  side,  and  very, 
very  seldom  indeed  has  Irene  to  rebuke  him 


328     "LOVE  THAT  HATH  US  IN  HIS  NET" 

for  a  solecism,  or  Lady  Dromore  to  explain  him 
to  friends  more  intolerant  than  herself. 

Already  Maurice  Grace  talks  of  the  time 
when  he  will  give  uj:)  practice  and  settle  down 
somewhere  near  CeciHa  and  her  husband.  It 
seems  absurd  of  him  to  talk  of  being  out  of  the 
fight,  with  Ciss  by  his  side  looking  radiant  in  a 
sort  of  immortal  youth.  One  man  wishes  for 
the  time  to  be,  and  that  is  Dr.  Brady,  who  is 
settled  down  near  his  friends.  Lord  and  Lady 
Kilrush,  and  never  seems  to  desire  to  leave  his 
and  their  precincts.  When  Maurice  Grace 
comes,  there  is  a  great  intellectual  brightening- 
up  for  him.  The  two  doctors  discuss  the  things 
that  most  interest  them — the  newest  discovery 
in  science  or  medicine,  the  latest  great  feat  in 
surgery,  the  things  that  are  being  done  and  are 
being  hoped  for  to  alleviate  the  sufferings  of 
humanit)^ 

But  though  he  talks  of  retiring,  Maurice 
Grace  knows  that  he  never  will  retire  nor  fix 
his  habitation  where  he  desires  while  Gran  lives. 
Gran  has  hitherto  refused  all  invitations  to  Kil- 
rush Manor,  although  she  has  accepted  the 
noble  grandson-in-law.  Even  the  heir  over 
whom  her  eyes  filled  when  he  was  laid  in  her  lap 
will  not  tempt  Gran  to  quit  the  sphere  to  which 
she  was  born  for  more  aristocratic  circles.  So 
Cecilia  and  the  heir  have  to  come  to  her. 

Ceciha  in  her  lovely  matronhood  looks  less 


"LOVE  THAT  HATH  US  IN  HIS  NET"     329 

than  ever  the  daughter  of  Ciss.  But  to  be  sure 
Ciss  dropped  so  many  years  out  of  her  hf  e,  and, 
waking,  took  up  her  hfe  where  she  had  laid  it 
down.  Ciss  will  look  a  goddess  for  many  a 
year  yet,  although  she  is  a  grandmother.  She 
is  adored  by  the  Dromores,  old  and  young,  by 
their  dependants  and  the  poor,  by  Betty  at 
Arlo  and  Cecilia  at  Kilrush  Manor.  The  wise, 
patient,  hard-working  husband  looks  at  Ciss, 
and  there  is  a  felicity  in  his  eyes  more  than  in 
the  eyes  of  the  j^ounger  lovers.  For  he  knows 
that  to  him  the  goddess  is  pure  woman. 


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a^t,;,"' ■  Catholic  Circulating  Library  llTyultii 

JUVKNIIvK    BOOKS 

20  Copyrighted  Stories  for  the  Young,  by  the  Best  Authors 
Special   net  price,   $10.00 

\'ou    get    the   books   at   once,    and   have   the   use   of   them,   while    making  easy 

payments 

Read   explanation  of  our   Circulating  Library   plan  on  first   page 

Juvenile  Library  A 

TOM  PLAYFAIR;  OR,  MAKING  A  START.  By  Rev.  F.  J.  Finn,  S.J. 
"The  best  boy's  book  that  ever  came  from  the  press." 

THE  CAVE  BY  THE  BEECH  FORK.  By  Rev.  H.  S.  Spalding,  S.J.  "This 
is  a  story  full  of  go  and  adventure." 

HARRY  RUSSELL,  A  ROCKLAND  COLLEGE  BOY.  By  Rev.  J.  E.  Copus, 
S.J.  "Father  Copus  takes  the  college  hero  where  Father  Finn  has  left 
him,  through  the  years  to  graduation." 

CHARLIE  CHITTYWICK.  By  Rev.  David  Bearne,  S.J.  Father  Bearne 
shows  a  wonderful  knowledge  and  fine  appreciation  of  boy  character. 
There  is  no  mark  of  mawkishness   in   the  book. 

NAN    NOBODY.      By   Mary    T.    Waggaman.      "Keeps   one    fascinated   till    the 

last    page    is    reached." 
LOYAL   BLUE   AND   ROYAL   SCARLET.      By   Marion   A.   Taggart.     "Will 

help  keep  awake  the  strain  of  hero  worship  and  ideal  patriotism." 

THE  GOLDEN  LILY.     By  Katharine  T.  Hinkson.     "Another  proof  of  the 

author's   wonderful   genius." 
THE  MYSTERIOUS  DOORWAY.     By  Anna  T.  Sadlier.     "A  bright,  spark- 

ling    book." 
OLD  CHARLMONT'S  SEED-BED.     By  Sara  T.  Smith.     "A  delightful  story 

of  Southern  school  life." 
THE   MADCAP  SET  AT  ST.  ANNE'S.     By  Marion  J.   Brunowe,     "Plenty 

of   fun  and   frolic,   with   high   moral   principle."   ' 
BUNT   AND    BILL.      By   Clara   Mulholland.     "There   are  passages   of   true 

pathos  and  humor  in  this   pretty   tale." 
THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  FLOCK.     By  Maurice  F.  Egan.     "They  are  by  no 

means  faultless  young  people  and  their  hearts  lie  in  the  right  places." 
PICKLE   AND   PEPPER.     By   Ella   L.   Dorsey.     "This   story   is   clever   and 

witty — there  is  not  a  dull  page." 
A   HOSTAGE    OF   WAR.      By   Mary   G.    Bonesteel.     "A   wide-awake    story, 

brimful   of  incident  and  easy   humor." 
AN  EVERY  DAY  GIRL.     By  Mary  T.  Crowley.     "One  of  the  few  tales  that 

will  appeal  to  the  heart  of  every  girl." 
AS  TRUE  AS  GOLD.     By  Mary  E.  Mannix.     "This  book  will  make  a  name 

for   itself." 
AN   HEIR   OF   DREAMS.     By  S.   M.  O'Malley.     "The  book  is  destined  to 

become  a  true   friend  of  our  boys." 
THE  MYSTERY  OF  HORNBY  HALL.     By  Anna  T.  Sadlier.     Sure  to  stir 

the  blood  of  every  real  boy  and  to  delight  with  its  finer  touches  the  heart 

of    every    true    girl." 
TWO  LITTLE  GIRLS.     By  Lillian  Mack.     "A  real  tale  of  real  children." 

RIDINGDALE  flower  show.  By  Rev.  David  Bearne,  S.J.  "His  sym- 
pathy with  boyhood  is  so  evident  and  his  understanding  »o  perfect." 


20   Copyrighted   Stories  for  the  Young 

By  the  Best  Catholic  Writers 
Special   Net   Price.   $10.00 

$i.oo  down,  $i.oo  a  month 

Read  explanation  of  our  Circulating  Library  plan  on  preceding  pages 


Juvenile   Library   B 


HIS   FIRST   AND   LAST   APPEARANCE.      By   Rev.   F.   J.    Finn,   S.J.      Pro- 
fusely   illustrated.      "A    delightful    story    by    Father    Finn,    which    will    be 

popular   with   the  girls  as  well   as  with   the   boys." 
THE    SHERIFF   OF   THE    BEECH    FORK.      By    Rev.    H.    S.    Spalding,    S.J. 

"From  the  outset  the  reader's  attention  is  captivated  and  never  lags." 
SAINT   CUTHBERT'S.     By   Rev.  J.   E.   Copus,   S.J.     "A  truly  inspiring  tale, 

full  of  excitement." 
THE   TAMING    OF    POLLY.      By    Ella    Loraine    Dorsey.      "Polly    with    her 

cool  head,   her  pure  heart  and  stern  Western   sense  of  justice." 
STRONG-ARM  OF  AVALON.     By  Mary  T.  Waggaman.     "Takes  hold  of  the 

interest   and   of   the   heart    and    never    lets   go." 
JACK   HILDRETH   ON  THE   NILE.      By   C.    May.     "Courage,   truth,   honest 

dealing  with  friend  and  foe." 
A  KLONDIKE  PICNIC.     By  Eleanor  C.  Donnelly.     "Alive  with  the  charm 

that  belongs  to  childhood." 
^    COLLEGE    BOY.      By    Anthony    Yorke.      "Healthy,    full    of    life,    full    of 

incident." 
THE    GRE.^T    CAPTAIN.      By    Katharine   T.    Hinkson.      "Makes    the   most 

interesting  and   delightful   reading." 
THE   YOUNG  COLOR  GUARD.      By   Mary   G.   Bonesteel.      "The   attractive- 
ness of   the  tale   is  enhanced  by   the   realness  that   pervades   it." 
THE    HALDEMAN    CHILDREN.      By   Mary    E.    Mannix.      "Full    of    people 

entertaining,   refined,   and  witty." 
PAULINE   ARCHER.      By   Anna   T.   Sadlier.      "Sure  to  captivate  the  hearts 

of  all  juvenile  readers." 
THE  ARMORER  OF   SOLINGEN.     By   W.   Herchenbach.     "Cannot    fail   to 

inspire   honest   ambition." 
THE    INUNDATION.       By    Canon     Schmid.       "Sure    to    please    the    young 

readers  for  whom  it  is  intended." 
THE  BLISSYLVANIA  POST-OFFICE.     By  Marion   A.   Taggart.     "Pleasing 

and   captivating   to   young   people." 
DIMPLING'S    SUCCESS.      By   Clara   Mulholland.      "Vivacious   and   natural 

and  cannot  fail  to  be  a  favorite." 
BISTOURI-     By   A.    Melandri.      "How    Bistouri   traces   out   the    plotters    and 

foils  them   makes  interesting  reading." 
FRED'S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER.     By  Sara  T.  Smith.     "The  heroine  wins  her 

way  into  the  heart   of  every   one." 
THE   SEA-GULL'S    ROCK.      By   J.    Sandeau.      "The    intrepidity   of    the   little 

hero   will   appeal   to   every   boy." 
JUVENILE   ROUND  TABLE.     First  Series.     A  collection  of  twenty  stories 

by  the  foremost  writers,  with   many   full-page   illustrations. 


2  0  Copyrighted   Stones   for  the  Young 

By  the  Best  Catholic  Writers 
Special   Net   Price,   $10.00 

$i.oo  down,  $i.oo  a  month 

Read  explanation  of  our  Circulating  Library  plan  on  preceding  pages 


J' 


uvenile   Library   C 

PERCY  WYNN;  OR,  MAKING  A  BOY  OF  HIM.     By  Rev.  F.  J.  Finn,  S.J. 

"The   most   successful    Catholic   juvenile    published." 
THE    RACE    FOR    COPPER    ISLAND.      By    Rev.    H.    S.    Spalding,    S.J. 

"Father   Spalding's   descriptions  equal   those   of  Cooper." 
SHADOWS   LIFTED.     By   Rev.   J.   E.   Copus,    S.J.      "We  know   of   no  books 

more   delightful   and   interesting." 
HOW    THEY    WORKED    THEIR    WAY,    AND    OTHER    STORIES.      By 

Maurice   F.    Egan.      "A   choice   collection   of   stories   by   one   of   the   most 

popular    writers." 
WINNETOU,  THE  APACHE  KNIGHT.     By  C.  May.     "Chapters  of  breath 

less  interest." 
MILLY  AVELING.     By  Sara  Trainer  Smith.     "The  best  story  Sara  Trainei 

Smith   has  ever  written." 
THE  TRANSPLANTING  OF  TESSIE.     By   Mary   T.   Waggaman.     "An  ex- 

cellent  girl's  story." 
THE    PLAYWATER    PLOT.      By   Mary    T.    Waggaman.      "How    the   plotters 

are  captured   and  the  boy  rescued  makes   a  very  interesting  story." 
AN  ADVENTURE  WITH  THE  APACHES.     By  Gabriel  Ferry. 
PANCHO    AND    PANCHITA.      By    Mary    E.    Mannix.      "Full   of   color    and 

warmth   of  life  in  old  Mexico." 
RECRUIT   TOMMY  COLLINS.      By   Mary   G.    Bonesteel.      "Many  a   boyish 

heart  will   beat   in   envious   admiration   of   little   Tommy." 
BY  BRANSCOME  RIVER.     By  Marion  A.  Taggart.     "A  creditable  book  in 

every   way." 
THE  QUEEN'S   PAGE.     By  Katharine  Tynan   Hinkson.     "Will   arouse  the 

young  to  interest  in  historical  matters  and  is  a  good  story  well  told." 
MARY  TRACY'S  FORTUNE.     By  Anna  T.  Sadlier.     "Sprightly,  interesting 

and   well    written." 
BOB-O'LINK.      By    Mary   T.   Waggaman.      "Every   boy   and   girl    will    be    de- 
lighted with   Bob-o'Link." 
THREE  GIRLS  AND  ESPECIALLY  ONE.     By  Marion  A.  Taggart.     "There 

is  an  exquisite  charm  in  the  telling." 
WRONGFULLY   ACCUSED.     By  W.   Herchenbach.     "A  simple   tale,   enter- 
tainingly told." 
THE   CANARY   BIRD.      By   Canon    Schmid.     "The   story  is   a   fine   one    and 

will  be  enjoyed  by  boys  and  girls." 
FIVE  O'CLOCK  STORIES.     By  S.   H.  C.  J.     "The  children  who  are  blessed 

with  such  stories  have  much  to  be  thankful   for." 
JUVENILE  ROUND  TABLE.     Second  Series.     A  collection  of  twenty  storie.'' 

by  the  foremost  writers,   with   many  full-page   illustrations. 


20  Copyrighted  Stones  for  the  Young 

By  the  Best  Catholic  Writers 

Special,  Nkt   Prick,   $10.00 

$i.oo  down,  $i.oo  a  month 

Read  explanation  of  our  Circulating  Library  plan  on  preceding  pages 


Juvenile   Library  D 


THE  WITCH  OF  RIDINGDALE.     By  Rev.   David  Bearne,   S.J.     "Here  is  a 

story    for   boys  that  bids   fair   to   equal   any   of   Father    Finn's  successes." 
THE  MYSTERY  OF  CLEVERLY.     By  George  Barton.     There  is  a  peculiar 

charm  about  this  novel   that  the  discriminating  reader   will  ascribe  to   the 

author's  own  personality. 
HARMONY  FLATS.     By  C.   S.  Whitmore.     The  characters  in  this  story  are 

all  drawn  true  to  life,  and  the  incidents  are  exciting. 
WAYWARD    WINIFRED.      By    Anna    T.    Sadlier.      A    story    for    girls.      Its 

youthful  readers  will  enjoy  the   vivid  description,   lively  conversations,  and 

plenty  of  striking  incidents,   all   winding  up   happily. 
ITOM"  LOSELY:    BOY.     By   Rev.  J.   E.   Copus,    S.J.      Illustrated.     The  writer 

knows  boys  and  boy  nature,   and  small-boy  nature  too. 
••\IORE  FIVE  O'CLOCK  STORIES.     By  S.  H.  C.  J.     "The  children  who  are 

blessed  with   such  stories  have  much   to  be  thankful   for." 
■ACK   O'LANTERN.      By   Mary   T.   Waggaman.     This  book   is  alive  with   in- 
terest.    It  is  full  of  life  and  incident. 
irHE   BERKLEYS.     By  Emma   Howard   Wight.     A  truly   inspiring  tale,   full 

of  excitement.     There  is  not  a  dull   page. 
LITTLE   MISSY.     By   Mary   T.   Waggaman.     A   charming  story   for   children 

which  will  be  enjoyed  by  older   folk  as  well. 
TOM'S    LUCK-POT.      By   Mary   T.    Waggaman.      Full    of   fun   and   charming 

incidents — a  book  that  every  boy  should   read. 
CHILDREN  OF  CUPA.     By  Mary  E.   Mannix.     One  of  the  most  th9roughly 

unique  and  charming  books  that  has  found  its  way  to  the  reviewing  desk 

in  many  a  day. 
FOR  THE  WHITE  ROSE.     By  Katharine  T.  Hinkson.     This  book  is  some- 
thing more  than  a  story;  but,  as  a  mere  story,  it  is  admirably  well  written. 
THE  DOLLAR  HUNT.     From  the  French  by  E.  G.  Martin.     Those  who  wish 

to  get  a  fascinating  tale  should  read  this  story. 
THE  \'IOLIN   MAKER.     From  the  original  of  Otto  v.   Schaching,  by  Sara 

Trainer  Smith.     There  is  much   truth   in  this  simple  little  story. 
"JACK."     By  S.  H.  C.  T.     As  loving  and  lovable  a  little  fellow  as  there  is  in 

the  world  is  "Jack.'"^  the  "pickle,"   the  "ragamuffin,"  the  defender  of  per- 
secuted kittens  and  personal  principles. 
A  SUMMER  AT  WOODVILLE.     By  Anna  T.  Sadlier.     Ttis  is  a  beautiful 

book,    in    full    sympathy    with    and    delicately    expressive    of    the    author's 

creations. 
DADDY  DAN.     By  Mary  T.  Waggaman.     This  is  a  rattling  good  story  for 

boys. 
THE   BELL   FOUNDRY.     By  Otto  v.    Schaching.     So   interesting  that   the 

reader  will  find  difiiculty  in  tearing  himself  away. 
TOORALLADDY.      By   JUlia    C.    Walsh.      .■Xn    exciting   story   of    the   varied 

fortunes  of  an  orpiian  boy  from  abject  poverty  in  a  dismal  cellar  to  success. 
fUVENILE  ROUND  T.\BLE.     Third  Series.     A  collection  of  twenty  stories 

by  the  foremost  writers. 


""ZZ-  Catholic  Circulating  Library  Ever" iK 

NOVELS 

IS   Copyrtghteci    N^ovels   by   the    Best   A.tJttior>>>» 

Special  Price.  S12.00 

You   get   the   books   at   once,    and   liave    the    use    of    them   while   making   easy 

payments 

Read   explanation   of   our   Circulating   Library  plan  on   first   page 


Library  of  Novels  No.  1 

THE  RULER  OF  THE  KINGDOM.  By  Grace  Keon.  "Will  charm  anj 
reader.'' 

KIND  HEARTS  AND  CORONETS.  By  J.  Harrison.  "A  real,  true  life 
history,   the  kind  one  could   live   through   and   never   read  it   for   romance." 

IN  THE  DAYS  OF  KING  HAL.  By  Marion  A.  Taggart.  Illustrated.  "A 
tale  of  the  time  of  Henry  V.  of  England,  full  of  adventure  and  excite- 
ment." 

HEARTS  OF  GOLD.  By  I.  EniioR.  "It  is  a  tale  that  will  leave  its  readt* 
the  better  for  knowing  its  heroine,  her  tenderness  and  her  heart  of  gold." 

THE  HEIRESS  OF  CRONENSTEIN.  By  Countess  Hahn-Hahn.  "An  ex 
quisite  story  of  life  and  love,  told  in  touchingly  simpie  words." 

THE  PILKINGTON  HEIR.  By  Anna  T.  Sadlier.  "Skill  and  strength  are 
shown  in  this  story.  The  plot  is  well  constructed  and  the  characters 
vividly    differentiated." 

THE  OTHER  MISS  LISLE.  A  Catholic  novel  of  South  African  life.  By 
M.  C.  Martin.     A  powerful  story  by  a  writer  of  distinct  ability. 

IDOLS;  OR,  THE  SECRET  OF  THE  RUE  CHAUSSEE  D'ANTIN.  By 
Raoul  de  Navery.  "The  story  is  a  remarkably  clever  one;  it  is  well  con- 
structed and  evinces  a  master  hand." 

THE  SOGGARTH  AROON.  By  Rev.  Joseph  Guinan,  C.C.  A  capital  Irish 
story. 

THE  VOCATION  OF  EDWARD  CONWAY.  By  Maurice  ¥.  Egan.  "This 
is  a  novel  of  modern  American  life.  The  scene  is  laid  in  a  pleasant  colony 
of  cultivated  people  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  not  far  from  West  Point." 

A  WOMAN  OF  FORTUNE.  By  Christian  Reid.  "That  great  American 
Catholic  novel  for  which  so  much  inquiry  is  made,  a  story  true  in  its 
picture  of  Americans  at  home   and   abroad." 

PASSING  SHADOWS.  By  Anthony  Yorke.  "A  thoroughly  charming 
story.  It  sparkles  from  first  to  last  with  interesting  situations  and 
dialogues  that  are  full  of  .sentiment.     There  is  not  a  slow  page." 


12    Copyrighted    Novels   hy  the   Best  Authors 

SPEoiAii  Net  F*rice,  $12, OO 

$i.oo  down,  $i.oo  a  month 

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Library  of  Novels  No.  II 

THE  SENIOR  LIEUTENANT'S  WAGER,  and  Other  Stories.  30  stories  by 
30   of   the   foremost  Catholic   writers. 

A  DAUGHTER  01'  KINGS.  By  Katharine  Tynan  Hinkson.  "The  book  is 
most  enjoyable." 

THE  WAY  THAT  LEF  BEYOND.  By  J.  Harrison.  "The  story  does  not 
drag,  the  plot  is  well  worked  out,  and  the  interest  endures  to  the  very 
last  page." 

JORINNE'S  VOW.  By  Mary  T.  Waggaman.  With  16  full-page  illustrations. 
"There  is  genuine  artistic  merit  in  its  plot  and  life-story.  It  is  full  of 
vitality  and   action." 

THE  FATAL  BEACON.  By  F.  v.  Brackel.  "The  story  is  told  well  and 
clearly,  and  has  a  certain  charm  that  will  be  found  interesting.  The  prin- 
cipal characters  are  simple,  good-hearted  peojile,  and  the  heroine's  high 
sense  of  courage  impresses  itself  upon  the  reader  as  the  tale  proceeds." 

THE  MONK'S  PARDON:  An  Historical  Romance  of  the  Time  of  Philip  A" 
of  Spain.  By  R.\ouL  de  Navery.  "\  story  full  of  stirring  incidents  and 
written  in  a  lively,   attractive  style." 

PERE  MONNIER'S  WARD.  By  Walter  Lecky.  "The  characters  are  life- 
like and  there  is  a  pathos  in  the  checkered  life  of  the  heroine.  Pere 
Monnier  is  a  memory  that  will  linger." 

TRUE  STORY  OF  MASTER  GERARD.  By  Anna  T.  Sadlier.  "One  of  the 
most  thoroughly  original  and  delightful  romances  ever  evolved  from  the 
pen  of  a  Catholic  writer." 

THE  UNRAVELING  OF  A  TANGLE.  By  Marion  A.  Taggart.  With  four 
full-page  illustrations.  "This  story  tells  of  the  adventures  of  a  young 
American  girl,  who,  in  order  to  get  possession  of  a  fortune  left  her  by  an 
uncle,  whom  she  had  never  seen,  goes  to   France." 

THAT  MAN'S  DAUGHTER.  By  Henry  M.  Ross.  "A  well-told  story  of 
American  life,  the  scene  laid  in  Boston,  New  York  and  California.  It  is 
very   interesting." 

FABIOLA'S  SISTER.  (A  companion  volume  to  Cardinal  Wiseman's  "Fa- 
biola.")  Adapted  by  A.  C.  Clarke.  "A  book  to  read — a  worthy  sequ«l 
to   that  masterpiece,   'Fabiola.'  " 

THE  OUTLAW  OF  CAM  ARGUE:  A  Novel.  By  A.  df.  L>.mothe.  "A  capital 
novel  with  plenty  of  go  in  it." 


12    Copyrighted   Novels   by  the   Best  Authors 

Sf»eciai>  Net  Price,  $12. OO 

$i.oo  down,  $i.oo  a  month 

Read  explanation  of  our  Circulating  Library  plan  on  first  PAgti. 


Library  of  Novels  No.  Til 

"NOT  A  JUDGMENT."  By  Grace  Keon.  "Beyond  doubt  the  best  Catholic 
novel  of   the  year." 

THE  RED  INN  OF  ST.  LYPHAR.  By  Anna  T.  Sadlier.  "A  story  of 
stirring  times  in  France,  when  the  sturdy  Vendeans  rose  in  defence  of 
country    and    religion." 

Hr^R  FATHER'S  DAUGHTER.  By  Katharine  Tynan  Hinkson.  "So 
dramatic  and  so  intensely  interesting  that  the  reader  will  find  it  difficult 
to  tear  himself  away  from  the  story." 

PUT  OF  BONDAGE.  By  M.  Holt-  "Once  hLs  book  becomes  known  it  will 
be  read  by  a  great   many." 

MARCELLA  GRACE.  By  Rosa  Mulholland.  Mr.  Gladstone  called  this 
novel  o  masterpiece. 

THE  CIRCUS-RIDER'S  DAUGHTER.  By  F.  v.  Brackel.  This  work  has 
achieved  a  remarkable  success  for  a  Catholic  novel,  for  in  less  than  a  year 
three  editions  weie  ;)rjnted. 

CARROLL  DARE.  By  Marv  T.  Waggaman.  Illustrated.  "A  thrilling  story, 
with  the  dash  of  horses  and  the  clash  of  swords  on  every  side." 

DION  AND  THE  SIBYLS.  By  Miles  Keon.  "Dion  is  as  brilliantly,  as 
accurately  and  as  elegantly  classical,  as  scholarly  in  style  and  diction,  as 
fascinating  in  plot  and  as  vivid  in  action  as  Ben  Hur." 

HER  BLIND  FOLLY.  By  H.  M.  RobS.  A  clever  story  with  an  interesting 
and  well-managed  plot  and  mai.y  striking  situations. 

MISS  ERIN.  By  M.  E.  Francis.  'A  captivating  tale  of  Irish  life,  redolent 
of  genuine   Celtic  wit,   love   and   pttlios." 

MR.  BILLY  BUTTONS.  By  Walter  Lecky.  "The  figures  who  move  in 
rugged  grandeur  tlirougli  these  pages  are  as  fresh  and  unspoiled  in  their 
way  as  the  good  folk  of  Drumtochty." 

CONNOR  D'ARCY'S  STRUGGLES.  By  Mrs.  W.  M.  Bertholds.  "A  story 
of  which  the  spirit  is  so  fine  and  the  Catholic  characters  so  nobly  con 
ceived." 


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Anna  T.    Sadlier 
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10 


ooj  PAGES  500  ILLUSTRATIONS 

A    ORKAT    OFKKR 

THE  LIFE  OF  OUR  LORD 


AND 


SAVIOUR  JESUS  CHRIST 

AND  OF  HIS  VIRGIN  MOTHER  MARY 

FROM   THE  ORIGINAL  OF 

L.    C.    BUSINGKR,    LL.D. 

BY 

Rev.  RICHARD  BRENNAN,  LLD. 


Quarto,  half  morocco,  full  gilt  side,  gilt  edges,  900  pages, 

500  illustrations  in  the  text  and  32  full-page 

illustrations  by 

WL.     KEUERSTEMN 


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This  is  not  only  a  Life  of  Christ  and  of  His  Blessed 
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11 


riie  Best  Stories  and  Articles  Over  looo  Illustrations  a  Year 

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